A Song of Three Sons
by Psykic Ninja
Summary: Lyonel Baratheon, Tristan Stark, Loren Lannister. As the King rides for Winterfell to name Lord Eddard Stark the Hand of the King, these three players will make their own moves in the game of thrones. For their families, their lovers and their ambitions, these three men will make their mark on the history of the Seven Kingdoms with steel, blood and fire.
1. Book 1 Eddard I

Six of Eddard Stark's seven children were looking at their new Direwolf cubs in awe and amazement, from little Rickon to his heir Robb and bastard Jon, they were in joy at their new companions. Things were moving faster than Eddard liked them to, finding a dead Direwolf with a living litter was one thing, but coupling that with the death of his second father and an impending visit by his old friend and now King Robert, and Ned was uneasy to say the least. This was the North, things didn't happen that fast up here. But still, he would do his duty and host the King as would be expected of him. "Father!" Arya cried, rushing over to him and hugging him tightly. "Thank you thank you thank you."

Ned smiled and rubbed his daughter's head softly. "Don't leave her Arya," he told her and her eyes widened and she rushed back to the pup she had left on the ground and was already crying out softly. She picked up the pup and cradled it once more. "Listen carefully," Ned said, and instantly he had the attention of his sons and daughters. "Winterfell is about to become busier than ever, the King, my old friend Robert Baratheon is riding for Winterfell." Robb and Bran looked half proud half amazed, Sansa blushed, Arya was more focussed on her wolf, Jon was silent and Rickon was confused.

"Do you know why father?" Jon asked.

Ned had his suspicions, but did not voice them, "no, I do not," he said, "but you will all be presentable many of the King's household will be coming, as will relatives and retainers. According to the letter, two of the Queen's brothers will be in the royal party, as will the King's niece and nephew, his children, of course, and many others." Robb nodded, dutifully, but at the same time looked desperate to ask a question. But it seemed that his daughter had gotten there first.

"What is the Prince like father," Sansa was breathless.

Ned smiled again, "I have not seen the boy," he said, "I am unsure, you will see him yourself when he arrives." He looked to the seven wolves, Robb had two in his lap, one nuzzling at his leathers whilst the other tried to crawl out from his lap, Jon kept his albino within arm's reach but still let it explore, the others were holding them close. It seemed he had made the right choice in keeping them alive, the Direwolves would, with some fortune, grow to be loyal guardians to his children. "The wolves will be restrained when the King arrives," Ned told him and his children looked aghast, "I do not think the Queen will think well of them."

"I can't restrain this one father," Robb said, indicating the one that was constantly trying to get away, it bore similar colours to the one Robb had claimed as his own, but darker, colder.

"Then we had best find it's master then hadn't we." Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon, Jon and Sansa all looked to him with amazement, giddy with excitement.

"You mean…?" Arya said, breathlessly, just as Sansa had been when talking about the prince.

Ned nodded, and looked to Robb. "I shall write you a letter," he said to his son and heir. "Take your horse and ten men and deliver it to Lord Bolton at the Dreadfort." Robb's mouth curled into a large smile, as was to be expected, "it is time that Tristan came home." Robb, Jon, Bran and Arya all cheered, Sansa clapped excitedly and Rickon grinned.

Ned however only gave a half smile. They saw their brother coming home, but Ned was only reminded of the incident that had caused his second son, Robb's twin brother, and the best young swordsman in the North to spend a year in service to Lord Bolton at the Dreadfort. Tristan murdered someone on Dreadfort land. An execution more than anything, there were witnesses. However, it was not for Tristan to take the law into his own hands, particularly when in the lands of one of his father's bannermen. His wife had been distraught at the news and Tristan's siblings had been either incensed, in the case of Bran and Arya, or deeply saddened, as was the case for the others. Catelyn had begged him to appease Lord Bolton in other ways, but Tristan had to learn responsibility for his actions. The boy was too much like Brandon, he snuck out of Winterfell in his youth enough times to turn a man grey before his time, and, was, more than once accused of being in bed with a nobleman's daughter.

It had been ten months since then, but if he waited for the Royal party to arrive before recalling his son, it was likely that he would be there for the latter half of the visit at most, and his Direwolf might grow to be too independent without him. He would apologise, but he hoped Lord Bolton would understand, if not, then he did not, but if Ned was going to be offered the position of Hand of the King, then he would see his son again before he left. "Robb," Ned said, and his son broke from hugging Arya to look at him, "you best make ready, I want you to be gone as soon as possible, the rest of you, do what you are told by the Household, Winterfell will be ready to receive the king." His stern message was taken seriously it seemed, by all his children, for which he was glad. He would have quite enough to do without chasing Arya around to tell her to listen to her mother or her Septa, or to tell Bran to stop climbing and clean himself up to present himself properly.

Ned returned to his solar, thinking of what had to be done. The king's letter had mentioned that his niece and nephew would be coming with, but nothing of their father. It seemed that Robert's feelings for his brothers were as strong as ever, and that Stannis would remain in the south and the capital. There was also the matter of the Queen's brothers. Ned would try to keep his feelings about that family back, thankfully he didn't have to deal with the other brother, he was already uneasy about entertaining three of them, let alone four, but as far as he was aware, Lord Tywin's second son, and heir to Casterly Rock, was still in the East, he had fled there some time ago, no one was entirely sure why. But the Imp and the Kingslayer, no those two would still be coming to Winterfell.

He sat back and sighed, wondering what had happened to make the gods curse him so. At that point his wife entered the room, dressed in a blue dress with a red outline, the colours of House Tully. "Ned," she said, coming over to him and hugging him from behind. "I hear you are sending for Tristan," she whispered in his ear, her tone eager.

Ned smiled, "and who told you that?" He asked, "do I need to cuff Arya? Or was it Robb?"

"You know he has been feeling absent without his twin," Catelyn replied, confirming Ned's suspicions that Robb had told her. Catelyn was right, until he had permitted his son to have the Direwolf, it had been a long time since Robb sincerely smiled, but when Tristan had been here, then Robb had smiled as much as any other boy. Ned often lay awake at night, wondering what would become of Tristan in the Dreadfort. He would not have gone to such an extreme had Tristan not stoked up a fast friendship with Lord Bolton's heir, among other noble sons from the North.

"That he has," Ned admitted, "but I did what I had to, Tristan had to be reined in."

He did not see it, but he felt his wife's face fall at the comment. "I know," she whispered, "even Arya is not so wilful, though I think that is in part out of fear that she will suffer the same punishment."

"Aye," Ned said, "she never ran out of Winterfell, she ran all around it, but never left the walls."

His wife nodded, "still, I wonder if Tristan can be reined in, he was always, by nature, a little wild."

"That is why he fit in so well with Robb," Ned commented, "Robb would temper him." They fell into silence once again, Ned and his wife looking out over the castle and the North beyond it. "Do we have enough food to feed the entire royal party?"

Catelyn unwrapped her arms and moved to a different chair. "We will need to bring some more in, if rumours about your friend's appetite are to be believed."

"Double them," Ned replied with a small smile, he remembered Robert well.

Catelyn gave a small laugh of her own. "What else will we require for the visit?"

Ned rubbed his temples in thought, "Robert will want a hunt, which means I should limit the amount of hunting in the Wolfswood, Robert _never_ returns from a hunt until he himself has caught something."

"Entertainment of course," Catelyn added, "jugglers, singers, fools."

"Plenty of them will be coming with the king," Ned muttered.

"You should not speak in such a way of the family of the Queen."

Ned nodded, not trusting his tongue when it came to the family of Casterly Rock. "Do we know of any of the preferences of the others?"

"I hear the king's niece is an archer," Catelyn muttered darkly, "that is not what Arya needs."

"You can hardly blame her," Ned added, slightly defensive of Arya, although he could see the many problems that could arise from having a noblewoman archer. "Her mother is from the Marches, and they learn archery well there, her brother is the same."

"Dorne is now part of the Seven Kingdoms," Catelyn replied angrily, "that should no longer be necessary." Ned laughed, he knew that it was only because of Arya that his wife was objecting to the archer, if his second daughter had been like Sansa then he suspected that Catelyn would keep her objections to herself. "Besides, from what I have heard of Lord Stannis, surely he is not the type to have his daughter train in combat?"

"Lord Stannis is Master of Ships, he is like to spend most of his time in King's Landing," Ned pointed out, "it is likely their mother had more to do with raising the child than the father."

Catelyn muttered darkly, but said no more on the matter of the King's niece. "What of the King's brothers by marriage?"

Ned sighed, it was going to be a long month.

* * *

 **A/N: So it took a while but I've finally reached a point where I feel secure enough in this story to begin publishing. The uploads are likely to be slower than in the last story owing to an increased workload at Uni, but I have a fairly solid idea of where this story is going.**

 **Since there are multiple new and changed characters, I'm going to give a list of them here:**

 **Robb and Tristan - 17**

 **Lyonel - 15**

 **Shireen - 14**

 **Loren - 30**

 **His children**

 **Lelia - 13**

 **Myrielle - 11**

 **Joanna - 10**

 **Tion - 8**

 **So those are the new characters and their ages. The final note I have to say is that it looks like I will be cutting the invasion from the Others/White Walkers. I have a good idea of how to progress the story without that arc involved, but that can still be changed if I feel the need.**

 **Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy the story and, as always, every follow, favourite and most importantly, review, is another incentive to get this story out faster.**


	2. Book 1 Robb I

Even in the light of the midday sun the Dreadfort lived up to it's name. The stones used in it's construction were large and jutting, like jaws snapping shut in the air over some invisible, unassuming prey, may times in the past, that prey had been a Stark prince. _And here I am, about to ride willingly into_ them, Robb mused. The drawbridge lay flat across the moat, the wood tinged red like a tongue held out to catch the sweetest of treats but the portcullis, the iron teeth of dark and twisted iron was firmly shut. Hopefully it would raise when the sentries caught sight of the Direwolf flying high above them, and hopefully Lord Bolton would consent to releasing Tristan a month before his service was up. He pulled his horse to a stop facing the imposing fortress, that had once held out for two years under siege, all Robb could conjure in his mind was the image of the room, the dark dungeon in the Dreadfort where the skins of the enemies of House Bolton were kept. He knew that flaying had been outlawed in the North for many years, but there was a reason that Bolton lords in ages past took the Flayed Man as their sigil.

"My lord?" One of the ten guardsmen accompanying Robb said, clearly curious as to why Robb had halted them. Robb looked back, it was Heward, one of the best swords in Winterfell, who had a basket slung over his saddle containing the wolf that was for Tristan, Robb's own pup was in a basket over Robb's saddle. They let the pups out when they stopped, but otherwise they were in the baskets, for their own safety, the horses could trample them easily. No wolf liked to be caged, and Tristan's wolf shared that sentiment with it's master. _Just a little longer, brother._

"It's nothing," Robb said, feeling giddy as he kicked his horse into a trot and they approached the Dreadfort. His initial fears were assuaged as they entered the dark castle, it's muddy courtyard occupied by guardsmen of House Bolton, servants and stableboys too. "My Lord," Robb turned to see a lanky man in mail and breastplate bowing at the waist. "Lord Bolton was not expecting you for nearly another month."

"Another matter has come up," Robb replied, dismounting his horse with his guardsmen, "I need to see your lord."

The guard raised his eyebrows, but nodded, and indicated for Robb to follow him. "Follow me my lord," he said, "Lord Bolton is in his Solar, I believe his leeching should be finished by now." Robb held back a shudder at the mention of the leeching, and followed the man up the steps, through the dark great hall, where skeletal stone hands held flaming torches casting flickering shadows upon the walls, where fingers became swords and daggers in the dark, up more steps and towards Lord Bolton's solar. The man knocked. "Lord Bolton, Lord Stark's son is here to see you."

"Enter," a cool voice said and the man opened the door and stepped aside for Robb to enter after him. Robb entered to see a maid departing with a sealed pot. Lord Bolton himself was folding a robe over his body, looking satisfied with his leeching. Robb saw little red blotches on his otherwise milky skin where the leeches had suckled at their red milk. "My Lord Robb," Bolton bowed his head, "forgive me, we were not expecting you."

"It is no matter Lord Bolton," Robb replied, bowing himself. You are always a guest in another's hall , even if that other is your bannerman, one of his father's first lessons. Tristan had skipped that one, among many others.

Lord Bolton nodded and said, "if you were here to see your brother, he is not here at present, he should be returning shortly." He sat down on a soft chair. Robb couldn't help but feel glad that Lord Bolton didn't offer him a chair. The only other one in the room was a hard thing, not meant for comfort, and ropes hung from the arms like snakes from the branches of a great oak.

He couldn't wait to see his brother, but his while he was gone, Robb remembered his other task. _If he'd been here to greet me, like as not I would have forgotten._ "My father bade me deliver this to you." He held out the letter and Lord Bolton took it, slit it with a small knife and read it, his face expressionless.

"You wish me to release your brother a month early to attend the King's visit." Lord Bolton remarked and Robb did not answer, fearful that he would say the wrong thing. The man was still as stone, his face not moving and his pale eyes giving nothing away. Lord Bolton nodded, "very well," he said finally, "it is not too great a request, there is little more the boy could learn from me anyhow," he added, "I believe he is humouring me, eager to be home." _If Tristan is humouring this man, I'm not sure I want to know how._

Robb bowed, grateful, his twin was coming home, to where he was supposed to be. "Thank you Lord Bolton," he said, "but," he began to ask, curious at the lack of emotion the man displayed. "If you don't mind me asking, you seem rather… unconcerned by what Tristan did, may I ask why?"

Roose didn't even hesitate, "my bastard meant little and less to me, and he tried to murder my son Domeric. In part I am glad for the actions of your brother, for, without becoming a kinslayer, I could take no action against him myself. I am not however," Lord Bolton added with a certain ghostly clarity that he couldn't help but be alert to, "glad that he exacted his justice on my land without my consent. It is no inconvenience to me, but that behaviour was not acceptable. He has made it up to me with a good year of service, however." Robb was glad, it would not do for Lord Bolton to be snubbed by the removal of his year-long ward a month early, for Lord Bolton would be his bannerman, if he survived his father. "If you wish to await him in the courtyard, I shall be there shortly myself, he should be returning with my son before long."

Robb thanked Lord Bolton and left the room, walking as fast as he could with any dignity, eager to see his brother again. He paced the courtyard impatiently, the two baskets containing the Direwolf pups at his feet, both still and silent, though that was likely to change the minute the lids were opened and Grey Wind and the as of yet unnamed pup were revealed to the air and those around them, guardsmen and servants all. "Open the portcullis!" A voice called out from a tower, "Lord Domeric approaches.

 _Domeric Bolton_ , that was the name of Roose Bolton's son. _Tristan_. The portcullis cranked open and a single rider burst through. He couldn't be anyone but Lord Bolton's son, they shared the same dark, lanky hair and pale skin and eyes, though the son looked more alive than his father, a little more colour to his cheeks and life in his features. His cloak was soft pink and he wore dark ringmail under a leather jerkin, a sword at his hip. But he was alone, no sign of Tristan at all. The man, not much older than himself, did not notice Robb or the men from Winterfell and instead turned to look out of the still raised portcullis. Soon a dozen riders came hard through the gate, one of them bearing a banner upon which was blazoned the flayed man of the Dreadfort, the way the banner was flapping in the breeze made it seem like the man as writhing in agony under the flaying knife. "Fuck you Bolton," called out a very familiar voice, "how can you still be so much faster than anyone else," the riders parted for another to be revealed from the centre of them. This one looked very much like a younger version of father, he had brown hair framing his face like dark curtains, steel grey eyes and a long face with a healthy beard along his jaw line and chin. He had a lithe, lean build, with broad shoulders from which a fur cloak hung, pinned at the neck with a direwolf pin. He wore lighter ringmail than the heir of the Dreadfort, and his leather jerkin had a direwolf emblazoned upon it. Unlike Domeric, but as Robb knew it would be, his sword was slung across his back. Robb had not seen his twin in eleven months, but he still looked much the same, if only a little taller.

"Easily," Domeric replied, smiling, "I just am."

Tristan shook his head angrily, and then caught sight of Robb and the Stark guardsmen. "ROBB!" Tristan swung of his horse and tore across the courtyard, Robb met him part way and then embraced each other fiercely, Tristan's grip digging into his back like a wolf's claws. "What are you doing here?"

"I am here for you," Robb replied, clapping his brother on the back, "father wants you home"

"What's that," said Domeric Bolton, approaching and pulling his gloves off, "Lord Stark wants him back, but Tristan has another month here, don't you?"

Tristan had been smiling but it faltered a little at Domeric's words, "father must be mistaken, I still owe Lord Bolton a month of service." That was possibly the most dutiful response Tristan had ever given to anything said in his general direction.

"A month forgiven," they all turned to the sound of Lord Bolton's voice. He was gliding down the steps from the keep so smoothly that if Robb hadn't seen his feet touching the stone he'd have sworn the man was floating. "You have my permission to leave, Tristan, your father wants you home in time for the visit from the king."

"What visit?" Tristan asked, curious, looking to Robb for an explanation.

"The King rides for Winterfell brother," Robb explained, "father wants you there to meet him, and the royal household."

"All the royal household?" Tristan asked. _Now which are you thinking of, brother, the women or-_ "Kingsguard as well."

Some things never changed. "I expect so," Robb replied, "he is the king."

"Excellent," Tristan was smiling and Robb knew what he was thinking.

"No Tristan," Domeric said, half punching Robb's twin on the shoulder, "you cannot fight the Kingsguard."

"Why not?" Tristan asked, "I want to see if they are all they're made up to be."

"Of course you do," Robb said, sighing. Ever the same with his brother. A giant clad in Valyrian Steel could walk through the gate of Winterfell and Tristan would challenge it to single combat.

"Well," Lord Bolton said, climbing down the steps onto their level. "Let us forget talk of Kingsguard and queens for now, when you arrived you did not apologise for killing the bastard," he was looking pointedly at Tristan, "do you now?"

"No," Tristan said at once, "he tried to murder my friend, I will not apologise for my actions."

Robb could not read Lord Bolton's lifeless features, instead Lord Bolton merely nodded, and continued. "Very well then, your things are being gathered, best you go and make sure they get everything. I wish you well on your future endeavours, and hope you have learned not to exact justice without permission again."

Tristan then dropped to one knee, "yes Lord Bolton," Tristan said in a more solemn voice than Robb had ever heard. "I may not apologise for what I did, but I have learned, it will not happen again." _Solemn and dutiful. How has lord Bolton managed it, brother?_

Lord Bolton nodded, and bid Tristan rise. "Then go and be well Tristan Stark."

"Thank you, Lord Bolton," he said and turned to Robb, "I will be back shortly, wait here, I did not bring much."

Robb considered showing Tristan the direwolf, but instead decided it would be better to wait until everything was packed and ready to leave.

When Tristan came down a short while later, so short the sun had barely moved, there were some servants carrying saddlebags that were strapped to two other horses that were to come with them. Tristan made his way over to Domeric Bolton, they said some words and embraced tightly, clearly having grown close. He had heard, in Winterfell, that Tristan's group of young fighters had grown to include Domeric, who had previously been in the Vale as a squire, now Domeric Bolton, Cley Cerwyn, Daryn Hornwood and Tristan Stark had a reputation across the North. It was strange though. From what they had heard Tristan was the de facto leader of the four, but of all of them, he was the only one that would not be a high lord of them. _Robb, leave the fighting and the fucking to me, you're better at everything else_ ; it was his perfect life. Tristan had never said, nor did Robb think he ever would, but Robb suspected that he had slept with Beth Cassel back in Winterfell. Certainly, she was not willing to admit that she had if that was the case, but she had always been rather enamoured with Tristan.

His twin returned smiling rather sadly, presumably at leaving his friend, but Robb could see a burning desire to return home in his eyes. "Before we go," Robb said, beckoning for Tristan to follow him, "I have something to show you." Tristan followed curiously as Robb led him to the guardsman who bore the basket of Tristan's Direwolf.

He gestured to it and Tristan took it from the horse, lay it on the ground and flipped it open. He blinked before looking up at Robb, "it's a dog," he noted.

Robb shook his head. "It's no dog," Robb told him, "it's a direwolf."

Tristan looked between him and the direwolf pup disbelieving, so Robb retrieved his own and told Tristan of how they had come across them. "So, this is my pup?" He asked. Robb nodded and so Tristan gingerly lifted the pup out of the basket and held him close. The pup nuzzled him, much calmer than it had been when Robb had been taking care of it. He laughed at the pup and stroked it's fur.

"Come now," Robb told his twin, "there will be plenty of time for that at Winterfell. It's time we went home, and many are eager to see you."

Tristan nodded and placed the pup carefully back in his basket, slinging it over his own horse and mounting it. Robb mounted his own and kicked it into action, leading the party out of the Dreadfort. _In through the mouth dread and back out again. I wonder how many Starks can say that?_


	3. Book 1 Tristan I

If he had been alone, could have done something about the itch on his right arse-cheek, unfortunately, as the Starks were standing stock still waiting in the courtyard for the king to arrive, he could not switch his hand to his rear to scratch it. To his left was Robb, the twins showing the two sides to the Stark family perfectly, and to his right was Sansa, eagerly staring at the entrance to the courtyard, Tristan not doubting that she was waiting to put her eyes on the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms. To her right was Bran, standing stock still whilst the other members of his family were to Robb's left. _No, not quite all_ , he realised, _Arya isn't here_. As he was about to voice this, his mother also asked where his sister was, Sansa shrugged in a very un-lady-like way. Then the culprit in question ran across the courtyard wearing a guardsman's helmet, fortunately, their father caught her and passed the helmet to Rodrik. Tristan joined the rest of the household, or at least the male members of the household, in smirking at the girl's actions, _only Arya._ They quickly went back to their old stoic image as the first of the royal procession, a knight of the Kingsguard entered the courtyard, swiftly followed by a blonde boy in furs and blood red clothes, Tristan could only assume he was the crown prince and a sigh made him look to his right. Sure enough, Sansa was gazing at the new arrival with misty eyes and was making noises that made Tristan want to empty his insides onto the floor. He did not like the boy, he decided in that moment, if the prince hurt his sister, the royal blood coursing through his brains would not keep him safe from the Sword of the North. Tristan watched as the knights and other members of the royal party slowly drifted into the courtyard and, when everyone else bowed, he took his cue from them and dropped to his knee. He had to follow the others for he had no idea what the King looked like, but if it was the last person to enter then he did not look like the legendary Robert Baratheon, with the black hair and huge war hammer of legend. Instead, it was a surprise that the horse was still upright with the huge lump of fat on top of it. The heavy footfalls that approached the Starks further showed this weight and Tristan, once more following the example of his family, stood when they did and looked at the King. Tristan turned as the king greeted his father, looking at the women as they disembarked from the carriage. The Queen and her daughter looked too southern for him, hair like beaten gold, and too ostentatious, dressed in far too decorative clothes, he was surprised that they were not shivering, it was not the warmest of days in the Northern summer. Not that it mattered to him, _more of a woman to see can never be a bad thing_. But there was another girl, she was different. She looked to be perhaps two years younger than him, possibly three. Her dress, dark blue in colour, was far less arrogant, she wore no jewels, leaving her pale neckline exposed for all to see but, to Tristan's disappointment, the dress did not plunge too far down. Her hair was onyx black and fell around her shoulders in thick curls, reaching to just below her shoulder blades. Her eyes were dark blue and sharp, and her face was angular and sharp, every line ending with a sharp point. _I hope no one's had to smack sense into her, they'd cut their hands on those cheekbones._ But she also looked sad, he could see it in her eyes, it was the same look that Robb and Jon had had the day he had left Winterfell for the Dreadfort. This must be the King's niece, he couldn't remember her name, but she bore such a look to the man who was the king that it could be no other.

"The Sword of the North," Tristan's attention snapped to the king, who was addressing him. "We have heard much about you in the court."

Tristan bowed his head. "Thank you, your grace," he replied. "Good things I hope." _Unlikely though._

The King laughed, "many a good thing yes, I look forward to seeing that fabled sword-arm of yours whilst I am here."

Tristan's smile crept onto his face. "If it pleases you, your grace, it would certainly please me." _He may be fat as a sow, but he has a good head on his shoulders_. Still, had tales of Highgarden not spread to King's Landing?

The King clapped him on the shoulder, "good man, it will be arranged," Tristan turned his gaze to the Kingsguard, there were not seven, not that he could see, but the famed Kingslayer was here, his lion helm and golden armour were a stark contrast to the pure white that the rest of that order bore. The Kingslayer would make a fine opponent, _but any of them would suit me well I don't doubt_. But it would have to wait for that time, it would not be now, first there would be a feast, in which Robb would escort the princess and he would be left, like a leper, to make the walk to the high table alone. He could see the laughter on Theon's face already.

Before the feast, Tristan found solace in the godswood, in one of the higher branches of the Heart Tree. He was alone, for Robb had more formalities to assume, being the heir to Winterfell, than he did, giving him certain freedoms that Robb could no longer enjoy. _Still, this place was better when I came with Robb. Before the bastard and the Dreadfort._ In their youth they had often come here together with Jon, and Theon when he arrived after the failed rebellion of the Greyjoys.

He sighed. He was not looking forward to this, it was too much pomp and ceremony for him, he would rather just go in sit down and eat, his skills lay with the sword, not with the tongue, if he wasn't interested then he simply wouldn't talk, but he was expected to flatter and soothe, to compliment the weak and cow tow to the lazy. It made him sick.

"Tristan," called out his mother, who must have ventured into the godswood to find him, "Tristan."

Tristan sighed and dropped, hanging off the branch and climbing nimbly down the tree until he dropped on the ground. His mother was sternly waiting for him there. "Mother," he said. _Here it comes._

She sighed, "Tristan, you need to stop climbing."

"I agreed to stop climbing the walls, not the trees." One of his few talents was avoiding instructions as much as possible. But even that lost its charm. He wasn't a boy any longer.

"But Bran takes after you in that, he climbs too high and too much," she truly looked fearful for Bran, who was a far better climber than Tristan was, Tristan had not been to the tops of the towers in years but he was never as fast as Bran was. _Bran is unnatural, the day he falls from a the walls is the day I go south of my own accord_.

Tristan nodded, "very well mother, I will have words with Bran once the royal visit is done and they are moving their arses back to the south, where they can all curl up in front of some warm fire and forget about us."

His mother looked relieved and sat down. She did not come here often, so it must have been serious, so Tristan sat down as well, running his fingers through a cool dark pool. "You must not be in such a manner in front of the royal court Tristan," she chided him, "you do reflect on Winterfell and the family with your actions."

Tristan looked into the black water of the pool. "I know mother, but do they have to be so… southern, the queen reeked disdain."

"She is a Lannister," his mother pointed out, "I would ask that you do not judge all southerners by the Lannisters of Casterly Rock." Tristan felt his cheeks flush, he sometimes forgot that his mother came from Riverrun when he spoke, it was ill of him, she was of Winterfell now.

"Forgive me mother," he said, looking her in the eye. "I meant no offence." _One day I'll meet someone who truly gets offended._ He'd beat them as he did everyone else.

"I know," his mother said, reaching out and taking his hand in her own. "But you must learn not to offend unintentionally. I do not take it personally, but the likes of the Lannisters will do so."

"Let them," Tristan said, "I fear no Lannister." His hand was shaking. "I don't," he told himself.

"Maybe not for yourself," his mother said, "but they have power over the throne, and, judging by the clothes of the Crown Prince, they will over the next one as well, they could do a great deal to your family." She reached out and touched his cheek, her touch was not strong, but he did not resist it as she made him look her in the eye. "You are my boy," she told him, "you have Ned's look instead of mine but do not think that I love you any less, when your father sent you to the Dreadfort it broke my heart, but he was insistent that you learn your lesson."

"And it is a lesson I have learned," Tristan replied, "but not very well, if the Lannisters harm my family, I will kill every single one of them."

()()()

As it turned out, he would not be walking to the high table alone, rather he would be escorting the King's niece to the high table to be seated near her and to entertain her for the evening. He put on his best clothes for the evening, a cloak lined with the fur of a snow white bear, and the cloak itself was black as night, whilst his main clothes were the grey and white of Stark. He was presented with the King's niece by the king himself outside the main door. "Sword," the King had said, "this is my niece, Shireen Baratheon, you will be escorting her," with nothing else to say, the King marched off to Tristan's mother whom he would be escorting to the feast.

Tristan bowed his head. "My lady," he said.

She curtsied to him, her new dress was shining gold and she had a pearl necklace on that plunged down into a low neckline, which Tristan snatched more than one glance at, far more satisfied with this one than the one she had been wearing when she arrived. _Whoever thought of the idea of chastity had no cock._ "My lord," she replied. She held out her hand and Tristan took it and kissed it, glad that he would not scratch her with his newly clean-shaven chin.

"You'll have to forgive me in advance my lady, I am not very good at this," he admitted to her, although it was not something he was truly ashamed of. "My brother normally has the honour of the noble ladies."

She didn't appear unnerved by that. "I also lack much experience at this... I won't know bad from good, my lord."

"A fine idea," Tristan said smiling. They moved into line, behind Bran and Rickon, the two boys standing tall as statues but a fidgety as mice.

They entered the feast together, and Tristan hoped that it would be better than he had feared.

He held out his right hand and Lady Shireen took it, adjusting her sleeve slightly as she did so. They walked down the centre of the hall and he guided the Baratheon lady to her seat, sitting down on her right side when she had done so. He was shortly joined by Robb and the Princess Myrcella, who looked up at Robb with a blush on her face and wide adoring eyes. The two of them sat next to Tristan, closer to the Royal couple and Robb and Tristan's parents. The meal itself was enjoyable to Tristan, who noticed Lady Shireen adjust her left sleeve a few more times.

As they were watching Robb dance with the princess, and Sansa dance with the prince; whilst the King fondled a serving girl and the queen looked imperiously at them all, Lady Shireen asked, "are you going to ask me to dance, my lord? I believe it is custom at events like this." It was not an accusation-like question, but rather one of interest.

Tristan shook his head, "I only dance when I sing," he told her, "and I only sing with steel."

"Ah yes," she commented, "there was much talk of your victory in the tourney at Highgarden in the capital around the untimely death of the Hand."

"I didn't win the tourney, so much," Tristan informed her. In the south, men got ashamed of such matters, but Tristan had not jousted on principle, so it mattered not to him. "I won the melee, my good friend Domeric Bolton won the joust and the tournament."

"Apologies," Lady Shireen said. "But the tourney of Northern Valour, as it has become known stoked up quite an interest at court."

"Valour?" Tristan asked, shocked. After what had happened there, what he had done there, surely they wouldn't call it that. Northern brutality, savagery yes, but valour, no. "You're certain they call it the Tourney of Northern Valour?"

"Unofficially," she commented in reply. "And it is not a widely known name, to most it is still the Tourney of Highgarden."

 _I shouldn't push this further. I am representing the Starks, as mother said. What happened there.. they can never know._ "Well," he said, taking a sip of his wine. "I care not what people call it, or me."

"Was your brother there?" Lady Shireen asked.

"No," he said simply. He had wished more than anything that they were, but they were not. "I was in service to Lord Bolton at the Dreadfort at the time," he explained, "I was going as a companion to his son, and Domeric let me compete when I was down there."

"He must be a close friend," she commented.

Tristan nodded. "Me, Domeric, Daryn Hornwood, Cley Cerwyn, we are as close as you can get without growing up in the same castle."

"I haven't heard of the others," Shireen said, taking a sip of her own drink. "Daryn and Cley."

"Daryn of House Hornwood," Tristan replied, "Cley of House Cerwyn. Together with Domeric, my closest friends outside Winterfell." He smiled at the memories they had. "We used to go together in many places, when others came to Winterfell for the Harvest Feast, we slipped out, stole horses and were riding in the Rills for days. Our fathers sent hundreds of men after us, we were all locked in our castles for the next two months, but after that we saw each other regularly. Mostly by me visiting them," he admitted, "my lack of duties as a second son give me more free time than the others. And two of them are already bound by betrothals."

"They are?" Shireen asked, apparently with genuine curiosity. "To whom?"

"Daryn is betrothed to Alys Karstark," he told her, "and Domeric to one of Lord Redfort's daughters."

"Is Lord Redfort not a Lord of the Vale?" She asked.

Tristan nodded. "Domeric squired for the Redforts for three years, he only returned a year ago," he told her, _shortly before I removed his bastard brother's corrupted head,_ "but he developed a friendship with Lord Redfort's sons, and came away with a betrothal offer, which his father accepted."

"And none for yourself?" She asked.

He looked at her, eyebrows raised. "Interested, my Lady?" He asked coyly. He leant in close to her ear, "intrigued by the northern warrior?"

Her cheeks flushed a deep red, nearly violet. "I... I... my lord... I..."

"You have no idea what you would be getting in to," he replied, kissing her cheek lightly. If she were of slightly lower birth, he would have continued, but one does not bed the king's niece without consequences.

She was shaking with nerves in that moment, quivering and fussing with her sleeves. "My lord, please... this is... improper." _Gods this one is chaste and innocent_ , but in this dress, at this time, she could only be described as beautiful.

"Very well then, my lady. I humbly apologise. I meant no offence."

"That is... quite alright, my lord. Thank you."

He nodded. "Would you still like to dance, my lady?"

She nodded. "Anything to put off my singing."

Tristan looked for Robb, who had just finished dancing with the Princess. "Robb!" He called out, over the noise of the musicians. He beckoned his other half over. "The lady wants to dance," he told him simply, checking his father wasn't looking before refilling his wine.

"Oh, and you want me to dance with her?" Robb asked.

"Not especially," Tristan smirked back, looking between Robb and Shireen, who had her eyebrows raised as well. "But she wants to, and you can, besides," he said, draining his glass and getting to his feet. "I need to take a piss."

Robb shook his head, laughing as he did, even Lady Shireen cracked a smile, her cheeks returning to their alabaster hue. "Eloquent," she commented.

"Isn't he just," Robb added, holding out his hand. "Well, my lady, shall we?" She took his hand and Robb led her out to dance. Leaving Tristan the opportunity to go to the privy.

On his way back, he bumped into a man with golden hair, green eyes, in a golden and red tunic. "Lannister," he greeted.

"Stark," Jaime Lannister replied.

Tristan nodded, then made to move past him. "Your pardon," he said, but Jaime Lannister stopped him.

"I hear you will be coming south with us."

"I don't know about that." Tristan replied. _Not if I have a choice_.

"It will be good to have the fabled Sword of the North with us, the competition has become rather stale."

Tristan smiled at him. "If you were hoping to see me in the lists," he told the Lannister. "Then you'll be disappointed, I have little time for poking a man with a very long stick."

"The melee then," he replied, still smiling, and moving aside so that Tristan could pass. He nodded his appreciation and moved past him. He entered the hall to see that things were getting more and more out of hand. He slowly made his way to the main table, where Arya and Sansa appeared to be up to their usual antics, well, Arya anyway. His mother gave him a pointed look and then looked at Arya, Bran and Rickon. Tristan, upon catching sight of Robb still dancing, nodded back.

"Not like the wine Rickon?" He asked, looking over their shoulder.

Rickon shook his head so Tristan picked up the cup and sipped. "You're right," he said faking a grimace. "This is horrible, leave it with me, I'll get rid of it. He downed the glass. He smacked his lips. "Now," he said, "let's get you three off to bed."

After a little protesting, and carrying a sleepy Rickon in his arms, he escorted his three youngest siblings off to their chambers. Rickon and Bran went without protest, but Arya required him to enter her chambers and see that she got into her night dress and into bed. "Come on Arya," he pressed. "You've had more than enough fun for the night."

She grumbled and sat on the bed, refusing to lie down. "Do I have to?" She asked. Tristan did not bother replying, simply glaring at her, but his sister could be almost as stubborn as he was at times. "Tell me about the Dreadfort," she insisted. Tristan sighed and sat down on her bed next to her.

"You want to hear about the Dreadfort?" He asked her teasingly. "About the room where they hung the skins of their enemies?" She nodded eagerly and he laughed. "Some other time Arya," he said, pushing her gently down and tucking her in. "Now go to bed, little sister," he said, kissing her forehead. She scowled, but closed her eyes as he blew her candle out and left the room.

When he shut Arya's door, he decided to get some air, get away from the hot Great Hall, so he went outside and leant against a wooden railing, breathing in the cold fresh air. "The hall is not to your liking?" He recognised the voice.

"Not really," Tristan replied as Jaime Lannister came up beside him.

"The Lady Shireen is about to sing," the Lannister added. "It is quite something to hear."

"I don't doubt it," he replied, "neither do I care about it."

"A man after my own heart," Jaime Lannister commented, and Tristan eyed him warily. He never knew what to make of southerner comments, they often tried to hide a dozen different meanings.

Tristan pushed off the railing and stepped down into the courtyard. "Go on then," he said wearily, "ask about Highgarden, I can tell you want to."

"No I don't," Lannister replied at once. "The thought hadn't crossed my mind, why ask when you can see." _See what, unless there are- oh._ He didn't know what had happened, he thought it just a melee.

Tristan smiled, now he knew what Jaime Lannister wanted, and made his way to the armoury. He pulled two blunted training swords out of it and tossed one to Jaime Lannister, who caught it deftly.

Tristan got into his own stance, adjusting his grip to compensate for the blade that was not his. He nodded at Jaime Lannister, who nodded back.

They leapt at each other.

He did not think, his sword arm acted instinctively, flashing left and right, up and down, striking high and low, deflecting, parrying and blocking from every direction as he fought Jaime Lannister. He could tell instantly that he was fighting the best swordsman he had ever faced. Lannister seemed almost lazy in his moves, but the lights in his eyes showed his excitement.

They exchanged a flurry of blows before locking blades tightly. Tristan, pushed up and away, knocking Jaime Lannister's blade aside and slashing a powerful blow at his belly. But the Lannister spun away and Tristan had to do the same in order to get back into a defendable position. He attacked again, striking high four times then dropping low, under Lannister's sword and striking at his ankles. But Lannister jumped and brought his sword down on him with a powerful strike, which Tristan blocked but it sent him to the ground. He had to move his legs deftly as he blocked every strike the Lannister sent at him, eventually using his blade as a hook knocking him off his own feet. But when Tristan brought his blade down in a hammering smash, Jaime Lannister had already rolled away as swiftly as a squirrel.

Smiling with enjoyment, he leapt at the Kingslayer again, smashing at him four times and using his elbow to slam Jaime Lannister's torso, making the Kingsguard grunt in pain. Then Tristan raised up and sunk his knee deep into Lannister's stomach, doubling him up. Against the knights of the Reach, that would have won him the spar, as he raised his sword looking to bring it down on Lannister's exposed head. But his foe reacted, sinking a fist into his own stomach, and doubling him up. Thinking instinctively, Tristan grabbed one of Lannister's legs and yanked, but he spun away before Tristan could trip him fully. They broke apart, panting and in stance.

Tristan looked deep into Lannister's eyes, and threw down his sword.

Jaime Lannister's eyes raised in surprise. "I didn't think you the type to surrender," he said.

"I didn't think you the type to hold back," he replied simply panting heavily. "But here we are." _I have no time for a man who doesn't fight his hardest. That's no use to me. Still..._ What he had seen and experienced. It shouldn't be possible to be so deft with a blade. Whatever else you said about the Kingslayer, he knew the steel song well enough.

His foe laughed. "True," he said, dropping his own sword. "But you did well, you have great potential. Like myself at your age."

"Ancient history," Tristan smirked back. Lannister smirked too.

"It feels like it sometimes," he commented. "Still, I can see why those knights fell to you so readily at Highgarden, I know few as skilled with a blade as you."

Tristan's face darkened and he felt the anger he felt inside reflected on his featured. Jaime Lannister looked confused. "Have I said something that upset you?"

Tristan picked up the two training swords silently and put them back in the armoury. "There are two sides to every story Lannister," he said simply as he turned back to the superior swordsman. "What happened at Highgarden remains there. I will not discuss it further."

No longer caring about the feast, he made his way to bed, silently. He stripped down in his chambers, thankful for the piping in the walls, but missing the feel of a warm body beside his own. The last image in his mind was that of himself, standing in the middle of a room of blood, his sword unsheathed and coated in red gore.


	4. Book 1 Shireen I

_Mother, bless me with your light; Father, show me the just path; Crone, light the way for me; Smith, forge me the means to survive; Maiden, shield my innocence and purity; Warrior, guide my hand._ Shireen repeated those words in her head as she released the hold on her bowstring. The arrow sliced through the air and planted itself less than half a foot shy of the central mark of the target. She had shunned her dresses for rough brown leathers today. Her father would have disapproved, he always did when he found her training, but in the end, he let her do so, and her mother actively encouraged it. The houses of the Dornish Marches had always trained the best archers as a counter to the Dornish raids, House Caron was no exception, and Lady Myrielle Caron, now Myrielle Baratheon, had insisted that her children learn to do the same. Given that Shireen"s father, Stannis Baratheon, was as often in King's Landing as he was on Dragonstone, and that Myrielle"s baseborn brother, Ser Rolland Storm served as Castellan in his absence, she was more than able to learn archery alongside her brother. _Lyonel_ , she thought, as she released another arrow and watched it fly into the target. She wished Lyonel had been able to come, she would not feel such a foreigner at the archery butts if he was. But, despite the King's request, their lord father had a task that Lyonel had to perform, so he could not be here.

" _Be well sweet sister,"_ he had said to her when she was boarding her ship for the capital, " _I shall see you when you return."_ She had tried to ask him what he was supposed to be doing, but he had not said, apparently their father had not, at that time, let him know himself. She tightened the belt on her leather armour, as it was getting a tad loose, and notched another arrow into her Dragonbone bow. She and Lyonel had taken the Dragonbone from the Dragon skulls in the Red Keep and had it fashioned into two longbows of the marches. The Marcher lords used heavy yew longbows, but Dragonbone bows released their arrows further and, even though their bows were slightly smaller, there was no bow forged in Westeros that could match them. In one swift motion she drew and released her arrow and it flew with a whistle before landing with a thunk into the target. She reached for her hip quiver, but found it empty, so she walked up to the target and wrenched each arrow free, returning them to her quiver before marching out another hundred paces to try again. As she walked her eyes caught the far more exciting inter house sparring that was occurring between the Starks and the Baratheons. At this moment it was young Brandon Stark against her cousin Prince Tommen, who certainly seemed less skilled than the young Stark boy. She shook her head, returning her attention to the target and removing the sounds of cheering, shouting and the clunks of wood on wood from her mind as she focussed on the target. In one single movement, she notched, drew and released her arrow and it soared towards the target, planting itself firmly in it less than a finger's width from the centre. _No arrow flies truer than the shaft of an archer of the Marches_ , her mother had told her that at the beginning of her lessons.

"You have a good bow-arm," said the voice of the younger Stark twin, and Shireen turned her head to look at him.

"Thank you," she replied, smiling before turning back to the target and notching another arrow. _Not many appreciate that, not knights, and not in a woman._

"Does that not hurt?" He asked and Shireen turned to look at him again.

She raised her eyebrows as she released her arrow into the target without looking, "does what hurt?"

Tristan Stark pointed at her left wrist as she held the bow at her side. "You aren't wearing a bracer."

 _Shit!_ She covered her left wrist with her right hand. "No," she said quickly, "It does not, I do not need one." _Why do I always forget to put it on in other holds?_

The Stark looked curious, but then he was called over. "Tristan," they both turned to see it was his brother Robb beckoning him, "the prince wishes to face you."

The Stark boy nodded and swiftly moved over to the circle. Shireen pulled up the leather sleeve to look at the hard, black, stone-like skin on her wrist, the marks of a childhood disease that had nearly killed her and her brother. Thankfully, the two of them were able to pass the disease, her left forearm was marked forever, much more closer to the hand, and less as the skin got close to the elbow. Lyonel's marks covered his upper right arm and shoulder, some even creeping onto his neck. They both covered their marks in front of any they did not trust, which was only their close family and the Dragonstone household. She let go of her arm and decided to go and watch the fight, curious to see as to why Tristan Stark was called the Sword of the North. But Prince Joffrey was apparently being obstinate as usual. "I am tired of fighting with wooden sticks," he said pompously. "This one fought in the melee at Highgarden with a true sword, I would face him with one of them."

 _This will not end well_ , Shireen thought, for her cousin could be obnoxious at times. The Master at Arms of Winterfell, who had the final say in the matters of the sparring denied it, but Tristan Stark seemed eager. "Allow it, Ser Rodrik," he told the grizzled knight, "then I can open the prince from cock to crown and show everyone his rotten southern guts." _Arrogant northman,_ she thought, her brother might well have planted an arrow in his eye for that Just because they didn't have to brave snows thirty feet deep didn't make them weak. There was uproar from the Lannister guardsmen who shared her sentiment, who refused to allow their prince to be both slandered and threatened. "Unless the Prince wants to name a champion to fight in his stead, which would be a better use of my time."

"You'll regret those words boy," someone called out from the Lannister camp.

This only seemed to amuse the Stark, who twirled his sword around effortlessly. "Then make me regret it southerner." There was a clamour from the Baratheon and Lannister men to fight in the name of the Prince, Shireen recognised the Hound was silent, despite being Joffrey's sworn shield.

"What is this my Lady?" Shireen turned and smiled. Ser Richard Horpe, a knight her father had assigned to guard her on the trip to the North, approached. He had broken his fast with a knight of the Kingsguard that morning. Ser Richard had always wanted to be a knight of the Kingsguard as a squire, but the Queen's political appointments had sidelined him. Richard liked battle and fighting, more than any woman, but was dutiful in his defence of her when possible. Shireen had been surprised when her father had told her that Ser Richard would be accompanying her. She knew Ser Richard, but had never travelled with a sworn shield before, so did not understand why her father now saw it as necessary. Unfortunately for Ser Richard and his love of battle, Joffrey was repulsed by his pox marks and scars so would never get him to fight for him. _Denied the glory of fighting at the side of the king just by his pox scars, a cruel fate for a knight._ That was one of the reasons that Shireen liked Ser Richard, he had scars of his own, not like hers, but she could hide her greyscale marks. She liked him, more than was appropriate for a lady of her standing, she remembered in the tourney melee for squires where he had won his knighthood, she had given him her favour to wear. He had thanked her for it, claiming that she was responsible for it. She had kissed him lightly on the cheek before but, no matter how hard she wanted to, she never went further. Her father would never marry her to a knight like Ser Richard, his birth was too low.

"The Sword of the North is readying himself for battle," she informed her knight, and she caught his hand grip the sword at his waist tightly, but said nothing. _Why is it left to Joff to defend the honour of the south?_ If it had been Richard, they would've been in safe hands.

"Tell you what prince," Tristan Stark said as he absently twirled his wooden sword in his hand. "If you can land a single blow on me with that wooden sword in your hand then I will consent to fighting you with a training blade. Is that acceptable, Ser Rodrik?"

The knight looked between them cautiously, but in the end he nodded. "It is."

Joffrey smirked and readied got into stance opposite the northman. Shireen gripped her bow tightly in anticipation, wondering what the Stark was planning. Her cousin struck, giving a swift thrust at Tristan's belly with his wooden blade. Tristan's response was smoother than silk. He dropped his wooden blade on the ground with a clatter that alarmed the audience, at the same time, he spun out of the way of the thrust so that he was to Joffrey's side. Then he seized Joffrey's sword arm and wrenched the wooden blade from it. Using the momentum left over from the spin he leapt out to range with a spin. With a loud crack that made Shireen wince, Tristan slammed the wooden blade across Joffrey's head, dropping him to the ground like a sack. "All too easy," Tristan Stark said, dropping the blade on Joffrey's prone body.

"He has skill," Richard commented. It took a lot to impress Richard, who had been a prospective Kingsguard knight; her father insisted he was a better fighter than many in the order now. Shireen half thought that he was about to challenge the Stark, but then there was an eruption of laughter and Richard and Shireen both looked over to see the King and Queen standing there. While her uncle was laughing, her aunt by marriage looked like she was about to commit murder.

"You do not disappoint boy," he roared.

"I try not to, Your Grace," Tristan Stark replied, bowing.

"Disappoint," the Queen spat, "he just brutalised your son."

"Then be thankful, _your grace_ ," Tristan said, his voice dripping with false sycophancy, "that Ser Rodrik did not permit the prince his wish to fight with cold steel, or you would be down one son."

Silence fell over the courtyard and Shireen's mouth fell open. _He can't say that, not to anyone, let alone the queen._

"He is right, wife," Robert said harshly. "My son had best learn to defend himself properly, or he will not be able to serve as protector of the realm. Hound." The Hound stood tall. "Take my son to Winterfell's maester, he can patch him up, and maybe he'll look at himself in the mirror and learn from it." The Hound nodded and, despite the vehement hatred in the eyes of the Queen, took the Crown Prince into Winterfell.

Shireen felt a grip on her arm. It was Ser Richard, which was strange, normally, following the kiss she had given him, he refrained from touching her. "My Lady, we should go," he said, nodding at the queen, who was looking at her bow in her quiver, and her leather armour disdainfully. She nodded, and left with him, making her way inside and back to her chambers.

She turned at the door. "Lady Stark and her daughters were eager to hear my singing," she told the knight. _I was blessed with this voice, I should take more pride in it_ , her brother always told her that. Shireen did not like singing too much, certainly she was not good at her mother's marcher ballads, one hundred verses each, but she did not deny her talents. "It would be unbecoming of me to sing to them in leather and armed." She did not like dismissing Ser Richard, at least not directly.

He bowed his head, "I shall wait outside for you to change my lady," he said.

"By no means," she replied, lightly touching the hand that was gripping his pommel. "I saw you out there, go and demonstrate your skills, I am in no danger here."

Ser Richard smiled and nodded, "thank you, my lady." Then he turned and headed outside back to the courtyard.

Her handmaidens arrived quickly and helped her strip from her leathers, which they never understood, but said nothing about, and helped her into a dark blue dress, the colour of her eyes. As they were doing this, they wondered what Lyonel was doing, and what his task was that their father had for him. He had said that it was vital to the Kingdoms, and House Baratheon of Dragonstone was nothing if not dutiful to the Kingdoms, whose shores they guarded. However Lyonel had never been tasked with a mission of overly great importance, sometimes leading patrols of the Royal Fleet, whatever he was doing she hoped he would be safe. As much as her heart might flutter for Ser Richard, her brother meant a thousand times more; he was the only one who truly understood her, as only those who had survived greyscale could.

Once she was changed into the dress that matched her eyes, her hair brushed and flowing down her back like a black waterfall, she retrieved her harp, a small thing, made of ivory that was easy enough to carry on her person, and made her way to where the Stark girls were. She entered the solar to find all of them, the Stark girls, those of her household, the princess Myrcella and others all practicing their needlework. No, that wasn't quite right, the youngest Stark girl, Arya, wasn't there.

"Cousin!" Myrcella smiled at her eagerly, her mother's beauty shining through at her face. "Are we to hear another song from you?"

Shireen gulped and nodded. "Yes, princess, if you wish it."

She nodded, needlework forgotten in an instant, as had the other girls. The Septa looked put out, but eventually took a seat as the others sat gracefully on the floor around her. She herself smoothed out her dress and sat down on a stool, gently plucking at the strings to ensure they were tuned correctly, it could throw her if they did not match. She decided on something simple, the Song of the Seven would probably please them. But before she could begin, the young lady Stark spoke up. "The Princess tells us that you compose your own songs, Lady Shireen." Shireen refrained from shooting Princess Myrcella a look of venom. "Could we hear one of those?"

Not wanting to disappoint, she nodded and thought of one that she had written. Clearing her throat and taking a sip of water, she gently plucked at the harp and began to sing her song.

" _I dream, I dream of a different lord,  
Proud and kind and true,  
You are his knight, I am his maid,  
Two hearts drawn to heartache and pain,_

" _I am a prize of gold and jewel,  
Chained at hand and foot,  
I cry in pain and aching loss,  
A cry you alone can hear,_

" _You are the earth and I am the tree,  
So long as I live, we never shall part,  
Your love feeds me, holds me and warms me,  
I die when we are torn apart._

" _You are a knight sworn to serve,  
But it kills you in your heart,  
You die, if you leave me, you suffer when you see me,  
An endless dance with death and pain, _

" _I am a maid, sworn to obey,  
But it kills me in my heart,  
I love when I see you, I yearn when I leave you,  
An endless song of suffering and loss. _

" _You are the earth and I am the tree,  
So long as I live, we never shall part,  
Your love feeds me, holds me and warms me,  
I die when we are torn apart._

" _You come at night to save me, to take me and claim me,  
And finally, you took me in your arms,  
You fought men to kiss me, killed them to love me,  
And then you took me away._

" _We rode through the night, through arrows slings and spears,  
We found a place far away, a place without tears,  
You hung up your sword, and I hung up my lyre,  
Together our love, will grow and never tire. _

" _You are the earth and I am the tree,  
So long as I live, we never shall part,  
Your love feeds me, holds me and warms me,  
I die when we are torn apart._

" _Our love never faded, father's wrath unabated,  
He came to take me back home,  
Your sword was removed from it's scabbard,  
My heart was bared to your blade_

" _His soldiers were coming, riding and hunting,  
They found only blood and death,  
Father's grief was endless, he wept and begged forgiveness,  
I grant it from the next world. _

" _You were the earth and I was the tree,  
So long as we lived, we never did part,  
Your love fed me, held me and warmed me,  
We died before we were are torn apart."_

She played the last few notes of the song on her harp and let them fade into the silence of the room. Her throat felt red and dry and the water she drank was nearly as much comfort as her brother's hold.


	5. Book 1 Lyonel I

His feet were firm upon the deck of the dark mahogany ship, as firm as they would be on land. They had always been so, ever since his father had insisted he learn to sail ships and command fleets in battle. As the heir to Dragonstone, Lyonel Baratheon would one day command the Royal Fleet for his king. But today was not command of a fleet, but rather a single ship, and Lyonel directed it into the port of the Free City of Pentos at his father's order. Lyonel had been worried by his father, he had returned four of every five of the ships of the Royal Fleet to Dragonstone, immediately had every ship in or passing Dragonstone seized by his fleet and then had sent for him. Lyonel was to take a single ship, a double decked galley, with one hundred trained men, and make for Pentos with all haste. He had not questioned his father, his father knew what was best and it was not Lyonel's place to disobey him.

"Half sail," he called out, and Maric Seaworth, his second in command, repeated the command at the top of his lungs. The _Silent Stag_ was not Lyonel's warship, but speed and subtlety meant more than strength in this matter. Either way, it mattered not what ship you were in, attempting to manoeuver a warship in a harbour at full sails would never work, you needed the greater freedom of movement of half sails at least, until you closed all the sails and moved on to the oars. There were half a hundred ships also moving into the harbour, presumably for the same reason they were, to attend the wedding of the last daughter of House Targaryen to a Dothraki horselord, the head of a horde of forty thousand warriors, the largest in the world. However he suspected that their visit was sincere. Under orders of his father, Lyonel Baratheon was here to seize the bride. "Take us in Maric," Lyonel said. Maric Seaworth, a competent seaman, nodded and took charge as Lyonel moved below decks to meet with the knights who were accompanying him, who were to put themselves in harm's way to accomplish his father's goal.

"My lord," Ser Rolland Storm greeted, bowing his head. Ser Rolland was accompanying him since his father had returned home and his duties as Castellan of Dragonstone were no longer needed, and Ser Rolland was a skilled fighter, who worshiped the Warrior more than Lyonel did himself. "Are we soon to dock?"

Lyonel nodded, "shortly," he said. He looked over his men, they were all armed and armoured, but their armaments gave no hint as to who they were, which was important. Although the Royal Fleet could easily overpower the Fleet of Pentos, due to the restrictions of the size of the Fleet the Pentoshi could float imposed on them by the Braavosi, his father had told him to avoid war if at all possible, and Lyonel never aimed to disappoint his father. "Are you all ready?" Lyonel asked, and the men nodded, following orders to remain undetected as long as possible. "Good, now," he said sitting down, "here is what we know, the wedding will take place three days from now, and in attendance will be forty thousand Dothraki warriors, armed and bloodthirsty," he pointed to a map of Pentos that he had placed on the wall. "We know that the Targaryen striplings are being hosted by Illyrio Mopatis," Lyonel pointed to the map, at a large mansion, "this is his residence. We must aim to take the princess between here and the location of the wedding, outside the city."

"What do we know about the defences of the city?" Ser Clayton Suggs asked.

Lyonel bit his lip. "Very little," he admitted, "they have doubled the size of the watch in preparation for the wedding, but beyond that, we know nothing."

"We can use the next two days to find out, surely," said another knight.

Lyonel nodded, "that is what we shall be doing. When we disembark this ship, we must split up, groups of five, and find out whatever we can about this wedding as quickly as we can." The knights nodded. Lyonel nodded in return, he had picked each and every one of them himself, as both his mother and father had told him, it was important that he trust each and every one of them with his life in this matter. He had left his mother and father to pick the crew for his ship, they knew the loyalty of the fleet, it's ships and crews better than he did.

He felt the ship dock and waited "Lord Lyonel," Lyonel looked over to the stairs to the deck, and saw Maric there, "the customs officers are demanding to speak to the captain, you'll need to speak with them if you wish for us to retain this berth for the ship."

Lyonel sighed and turned to his men, "remain silent, I shall call if I need you," he told them and they nodded as he made his way to the upper deck, fastening a light blue cloak to his shoulders and hooking his mace to his right hip. He decided to leave his bow behind, he did not need to overwhelm the officer, only show him that he was armed.

He disembarked alone to meet with the officer, who had four guards in scale armour with large shields and long spears accompanying him. The pale and sweating officer looked unnerved by Lyonel's mace. _Good_ , he thought, _maybe he will be more open to allowing me to retain a berth for my ship._

"Good captain," the officer said in a soft silky voice, "we apologise for the delay, but this is a formality we need to do." Lyonel nodded curtly, hoping that a feigned air of impatience would help get through this quickly. "What is your business in Pentos?"

"Trade," Lyonel replied coldly.

"What commodities does your ship carry?"

"At the moment none," Lyonel said, "only some men who help defend my ship, and coin to pay for new goods."

"And where do you come from?"

"White Harbour," Lyonel said, knowing that mentioning King's Landing or Dragonstone would raise more suspicion if an investigation was launched, given who ruled there. _I can't have this reflect back onto father. I'm surely here to prevent a war, not start one with Pentos_ "Before then I sailed from the Arbor with a hundred barrels of Arbor wine to sell, now I come here for new goods before moving on to the city of Volantis."

The man struggled to keep up with what Lyonel said as he was jotting it down on a book he was trying to balance on his knee. Not very well either. "And," he said finally, having caught up with himself. "What would my men find when they inspected your hold?"

"One hundred armed and angry men," Lyonel replied honestly, lying at customs was not good, Davos had once told him, not if they inspected your ship and found you to be lying. "You must know of the pirate roaming the Narrow Sea?" The man nodded, even though Lyonel knew that to be a lie. That pirate was Salladhor Saan, and his ships were in Lys and had been for a while, Davos was on his way there to meet with them, Lyonel was still unsure as to why. The customs official had paled even more when Lyonel mentioned his knights, and so closed his book and stepped aside. "You may use this berth for the duration of your visit to the Free City of Pentos." Lyonel nodded as he scurried away and turned to dispatch his men to the different districts of the city, to taverns and inns, in an attempt to learn whatever could be learnt about the upcoming wedding of Daenerys Targaryen and the Dothraki Khal as they could, and where it would be best to steal the former princess.

Lyonel, Ser Rolland, Ser Andrew Estermont, Ser Gerald Gower and Ser Aerion Bar Emmon entered a tavern in the district nearest to the manse of Illyrio Mopatis. They saw heads turn in their direction, understandable, five armoured individuals draw attention in a tavern like this, where most wore perfumed cloth and rich silks and fabrics. Lyonel marched straight to a table in a far corner, the best place to observe his surroundings, and sat down, his knights following suit. Aerion, the fairest and most comely of them, playied the part of a lecherous captain who had just come in to dock and was exploring the city, groped the arse of a passing serving girl, "some ales love." The pale haired bright eyed knight acted so much like uncle Robert often did. It repulsed Lyonel, but it was what had to be done. He looked around and noticed the vast array of people here. Given his father's recent seizure of so many ships from so many different places, Lyonel could tell different people by their looks, he could use that to his advantage. "Gerald," he said, and Gerald, a dark haired, golden eyed individual, who had only earned his knighthood upon the Trident, nodded, he wasn't as naturally comely as Aerion, could sweet talk almost anyone, or so he claimed, though he had yet to succeed with Lyonel's father. When the pretty serving girl, with soft brown eyes and dirty blonde hair returned to their corner with a tray of drinks, Aerion pulled her onto his lap. He buried his face into her neck, under the pretence of sniffing her like the drunk sailor he was pretending to be. Lyonel glimpsed the collar, this one was a slave in all but name. "So then beauty," he said, holding her close, "what's with the crowd here?"

She was timid, but it seemed she had not been forbidden from speaking. "There's t' be a wedding, ser," she replied, "a princess to a horselord, everyone who is anyone will be there."

"Are you anyone?" Aerion asked. Lyonel suspected not.

"No ser," she replied, trying to get up but Aerion held her fast. "I will watch as the princess comes past us."

"Past us where?" Aerion asked, "I've never seen no princess, where could I watch?"

"All along the path ser," she replied, finally managing to get up, "could you ask another I really need to-"

As she got up Lyonel seized her arm and pulled her low, clapping a hand over her mouth to silence her gasp. He looked across the table at Ser Andrew Estermont, who glanced around and nodded, no-one had seen. "Tell me," he said, not even trying to put on a voice his uncle would approve of, "do you have a family?" He stared into her eyes intently, hoping to tell her with his own that he meant no harm. His father was no good at that, but his mother was, and he hoped he had inherited this from her.

She nodded slowly and he released his hand, ready to slam it over her mouth again at a moment's notice, "a son and a daughter, their father is dead," she whispered.

"I can take you and your children away from this city," he whispered back, "but you will have to do something for me first."

"I am not a whore ser," she replied in a vehement whisper. She had spirit, good, completely timid people could be forced but could equally run off to their master.

"I am not asking for that service," Lyonel told her, "I simply need you to walk me down the street that the Princess will go down, tonight, when the sun has set. Can you do that?"

She glanced over her shoulder also looking out for her overseers. Then she glanced at Aerion, who'd dropped his lecherous look. "What's going on?"

"Nothing you need concern yourself with," he replied. "I'm sorry for my friend, but we had to make sure you knew what you needed us to know, you understand?"

She nodded, fear palpable in her face.

"Good," he said. "We mean you no harm, but we need your help."

"How can I trust you?" She whispered to him.

Lyonel pulled a marcher necklace out, "this belonged to my mother," he said, pressing it into her hand. "Keep it as a guarantee that I will return and not just leave, all I need you to do," he repeated, "is wait outside this tavern after dark, I will be there, and you can then lead me down the path."

She nodded, her eyes widening at the sight of the necklace, slipped the necklace over her neck and disappeared into the crowd. The necklace was not actually his mothers, but a cheap copy, it was not even real silver. All he needed it to do was get this girl's trust, then he could wait to find the best place in which to ambush the princess" convoy and rush back to the ship. "Will this work my lord?" Asked Ser Andrew, once the girl had vanished.

Lyonel took a draught from his tankard. "It will or it won't," he replied, "if it doesn't, we find another way." Now he had a long wait until sundown.

He had spent the whole day in the tavern, his knights not being able to learn about the sort of entourage that would be accompanying the Targaryen through the streets. The only thing they found out, which was a good thing, was that the Dothraki would all be outside the city. Hopefully, with the horses that they had brought with them, Lyonel and his knights could seize the princess and be in the harbour before the massive horde outside learned that the bride of the wedding was gone. Perhaps more importantly, before their ship could be seized by the Pentoshi authorities. When he got up and left the tavern, he was glad to see the serving wench waiting nervously outside.

"It is this way," she said quietly, leading them on in silence down several streets, _good, I don't need her to speak, only to lead_ , he and his knights would be able to determine the best location to ambush the convoy.

"Stop," Lyonel said, they had reached a small square with seven entrances. Maybe the gods were blessing them, seven was ideal, enough entrances to attack from multiple directions at once and then break for freedom down the streets to the harbour. "Here," he said and all his knights nodded.

"We can have ten men down each street and then break for freedom," Ser Andrew said.

Aerion turned to the woman. "What is the fastest way to the harbour from here?"

She pointed down one of the streets. "That way, the street is almost direct to the harbour from here."

Lyonel nodded. "What is your name?" He asked the woman kindly.

"Saerra," she replied, quietly.

"Saerra," he told her, gently resting his hand on her shoulder. "And your children?"

"My son is called Kailen," she whispered, "and my daughter is called Aeriel."

Lyonel nodded, pretending to be impressed by them, in truth, names meant little to him. "Well, Saerra, when you are done tomorrow night, bring your children to the tavern, I will bring you to my ship and you will all come with us."

"Where will we go?" She asked.

"You will come with us to Westeros," he told her, "I will arrange it so that your son becomes a squire, and your daughter a handmaiden to either my mother or sister."

"A squire?" She asked.

"One day, he will become like us."

"I will take him on myself," Aerion said, "by means of an apology for my... behaviour earlier," Lyonel nodded.

"Very few get this chance, your son will enjoy a good life."

Saerra nodded. "Thank you ser, I will bring them both tomorrow."

Lyonel nodded as she swiftly scurried away, presumably back to her master. "Will you actually do so?" Gerald asked him.

He looked at the knight, "my father taught me to honour pledges made where possible, this is most possible."

Gerald nodded, "I will bring her to the ship myself," he said, "that will give you enough time to inform the others about our chosen location."

Aerion added, "I will too, it will be good for the boy to see the man he will be squiring for."

Lyonel nodded, "be ready men, in three days we steal ourselves a princess."

"Why are we stealing her?" Andrew asked, "why not just kill her and her brother?"

"Because my father says we take her," Lyonel replied instantly, "he cares not for the brother, but we need the girl, and we will have her."


	6. Book 1 Tristan II

"Old Gods, you have watched over the Starks for generations, since Brandon the Builder lay the first stone in Winterfell's foundations. Now his namesake needs you, Bran fell, he fell from the tower. I was supposed to tell him not to climb, when the royals left Winterfell, but he fell before they have left. I know I should have told him sooner, mother asked me to and I did not. Please save my brother." Tristan whispered the prayer before the heart tree of Winterfell. He had repeated it every day since Bran had fallen, or a variation of it at least, and now more than ever, he hoped that the gods listened to him. Tristan had never been particularly pious, but he would hang up his sword and join the southerner's faith if it would get him his brother back.

Having finished his prayer, Tristan got up, brushed the moss off his knees, sheathed his sword across his back, for he had been resting it before him, point down, to pray, and made his way out of the godswood. He met no one on his way out, everyone was involved in packing up the convoy for the Royal return to King's Landing. Only when he finally broke free of the godswood did he finally encounter movement, as soldiers and serving men all ran back and forth, packing, loading, checking, and more on the caravan. Tristan moved past them all, not caring for the southerners, for all his possessions were packed already. Originally, after the incident with the weakling prince, there had been contemplations over whether taking him south was a good idea. But then the king had insisted, so he was. He was not too pleased about leaving Robb again, but he would return once this supposed tourney was done.

Two men in Baratheon colours quickly parted when Tristan came nearby, allowing him to move past. Waiting at the base of Winterfell's steps was Tristan's wolf. He was unsure what to name him, only he and Bran had not yet named their wolves. Tristan beckoned, and the wolf came to him, not at great speed, but still faster than a hound would at that size. "Tristan," Tristan recognised the voice and turned to find Beth Cassel approaching him, looking rather miserable. "You won't be staying with us then?"

Tristan sighed. He had missed Beth in the Dreadfort, her warm smile, her soft eyes and her red hair. He had been to her chambers twice before, once just before he had left for the Dreadfort. Indeed, he had left on his horse the next morning with the taste of her still on his lips. "No I will not," he told her.

"Oh," she said, looking sadder still now that he had said it. "I hope Bran gets better soon," she added.

"As do I," Tristan said, looking up at the ruined tower from which he had fallen.

"I suppose he climbed from the godswood," Beth said, indicating the trees which had branches reaching for the roof of the armoury, from where Tristan could trace Bran's route. Then his eyes narrowed, it was one he had taken himself before, but it didn't make sense.

"Bran fell from the First Keep didn't he?" He asked Beth suddenly, seizing her by the shoulders and looking her in the eye.

"I-I don't…"

"Did Bran fall from the First Keep?!"

Beth nodded.

Tristan released her. He knew something was wrong, the path that Beth had pointed out was the route he and Bran took to get to the Broken Tower, it did involve, in the later part of the journey, climbing the First Keep, but not near where Bran had fallen. "Thank you Beth," he said, leaning down and kissing her softly. "I will see you again before I leave, but for now there is something I must do." He left a bewildered looking Beth behind and raced off to the godswood.

Thinking back to his days of climbing, like Bran, Tristan found the right tree and, leaving his wolf at the base of it, he planted his foot into the bark and began to climb. It had been a while since he climbed for the pleasure of climbing, but it had helped keep him limber for his fighting, so he had still done a little of it, even at the Dreadfort. He quickly got back into the rhythm of this path and was soon in the upper branches of the tree. He unfastened his cloak, it was getting tangled and when climbing the tower, it would only catch the wind and throw him off balance, and tossed it to the ground and his wolf, who was watching him intently. He kept his sword on, he felt half naked without it these days, as he jumped across onto the roof of the armoury and began running over the roof of the guardhouse. He was wearing boots, which meant that if there was someone in the guardhouse then they would be able to hear him, but Tristan doubted there would be, and even if there were, he didn't care, he had to discover this.

He reached the blind side of the First Keep, and scaled it, not quite as quickly as he could have done when he was younger and did it far more often, reaching the row of gargoyles that you traverse in order to get to the side that faced the Broken Tower. He slowly pulled down on the gargoyle, to test that hit could hold his weight. Comfortable that it could he slowly made his way around them. At every gargoyle, he looked down to the ground. He could picture where Bran fell perfectly, the image of the broken boy seared in his mind like a slave brand, and he was trying to see where that would be. At the last gargoyle, it finally seemed that he had found the gargoyle, but something was still wrong. He closed his eyes trying to think, he couldn't work out what it was, but something was wro-

"TRISTAN!" His left hand slipped from the gargoyle and he flailed about. _Shit of the gods!_ Fear gripped him as he struggled to hold on with one hand, one hand that was slipping off. Time seemed to slow as he cast his eyes around for something to grab onto to steady himself. _There!_ His eyes alighted on the window below him to the right. Using all the strength in his arm and swinging his lower body slightly, Tristan launched himself with his failing grip towards the window. _Come on!_ He just caught on to the ledge with his right arm, quickly reaching inside with his left to grab the inner ledge and haul himself through. He re-caught his breath, slowly and steadily, before standing up and looking out of the window. A small crowd had gathered by the caravan. It seemed that Sansa had been the one to shriek out, he could see her auburn head , but many had their hands over their mouths as he looked out at them. Tristan ignored them, this was more important, he closed his eyes imagining where Bran had ended up. It was definitely either the gargoyle he had been on that he had fallen from, unlikely, given how good Bran was at climbing, or this window. He ignored clapping and curses being sent in his direction. _Why, Bran, why would you be here? You should've sped right on past here. Did you really fall?_ He remembered One of Lord Bolton's lessons at the Dreadfort. It was just after he had been showing off his skills against the Bolton garrison. _"You are unmatched here with the blade. But one day you will meet someone who is more than your equal. You must be ready for that._ As in so many other things, Lord Bolton was right. He'd met Jaime Lannister. The swordsman Bolton had spoken of had come here. He'd been bested with a blade, and Bran had fallen. Will the southrons bring any more woe with them to Winterfell? _Thank the gods they're leaving._ But of course, he was going with them.

Heart still fluttering from his near fall, he made his way down the stairs and out of the door to find Sansa looking terrified at him. "Are you okay?" She breathed.

Tristan smiled and nodded, "I am," he said, "really." She did not look convinced, but he knew she needed to be with the caravan now. "Go to the wagons," he told her, "I need to see mother." Tristan's wolf came bounding up there now, Tristan's cloak in his jaws. Tristan retrieved it and put it on before making his way to Bran's chambers, where his mother had been staying for some time.

She looked more bedraggled than Tristan had ever seen her, her hair looked like it had not been brushed since Bran had fallen, she was wearing the same clothes and her eyes were red and puffy. He went behind her and hugged her close to him, "has there been any change?" He asked her and she shook her head.

"I fear the worst," she whispered, "he flits so close to death." A howl interrupted her, Bran's wolf had been outside howling most of the time since he had fallen. His own whined inside the room. "What is that beast doing here?" His mother demanded fiercely. "He is dangerous Tristan."

"He is not," Tristan insisted. He released his mother and said to his wolf, "open." More obedient than any hound, the wolf opened it's jaw and Tristan put his hand inside the gape of the mouth with razor like teeth, feeling the hot breath of his wolf on him. It stayed open, only closing when Tristan took his hand out. "You see, he will not hurt Bran."

"He is more obedient than you were," his mother commented, and Tristan chuckled. Tristan sat on the edge of Bran's bed, looking at his face, so small and pale, with their mother's red hair and blue eyes, _so much like Robb when we were that age._

Tristan reached out and touched Bran's face, it was colder than it should have been. "I'm sorry," he whispered, partly to his mother and partly to Bran, "I should have warned you against climbing sooner, I should not have waited. But what happened Bran?" He asked, leaning down so that his face was but inches from that of his brother, but it made no difference to Bran, who was just as still as before.

"Tristan," his mother said softly, "you cannot feel guilty, you were not here, and I asked you to tell Bran not to climb only after the Royals had left."

"I should have done it sooner," he said bitterly, "now I may never get the chance."

His mother did not answer that point, instead she simply said "you should go and join your father and your sisters. It is likely you will be off soon.

Tristan nodded and got up, swiftly leaving the room. Halfway down the stairs he encountered Jon, who was no doubt on his way up to see Bran himself. "Jon," he greeted him monotonously. "How are you?"

"Well enough," Jon said, "how is Bran?"

"No change," Tristan said simply, "if you're going to see him, be careful, mother is up there."

Jon nodded as he passed Tristan by. "I'll see you when you leave."

Grateful for the fresh air outside, Tristan took several deep breaths before he headed off to the main gate where he assumed his father would be. "Is your brother well," an unknown voice called out. Tristan's wolf growled fiercely at the sound and Tristan turned to see the dwarf brother of the Queen approaching.

"What do you care for him?" Tristan asked sharply. _What business is it of yours, Lannister, you don't know what it means to be family._ "I have seen the way the queen looks at you; you Lannisters clearly have queer views on family."

"That is only my sister," Tyrion Lannister replied, "and she treats all like that, I am simply not an exception to the rule."

Tristan raised his eyebrows, "only your sister, your father sacked King's Landing whilst your brother was near the king. That was quite a risk with his son's life."

"My brother can handle kings as I am sure you know," Tyrion said and Tristan nodded, his father had told his children enough about the Kingslayer.

"Well, to answer your question, my brother is as well as I could expect, I am simply glad that he did not die." But of course, that wouldn't be enough to get the dwarf man to leave him alone.

"Like you almost did?" Tyrion asked. "Half the caravan saw you almost fall at your sister's cry, I assume your brother got it from you."

Tristan shook his head, "Bran was climbing as soon as he could, I made the choice to, but with Bran, it was simply his nature."

Tyrion Lannister nodded, "he reminds me of my niece."

"The princess climbs?" Tristan asked surprised, she didn't look the sort, too soft, too delicate. He'd have thought the only water she'd enter would be scented with salts and fragrance

"Not her," Tyrion Lannister said, "one of my other nieces, Lelia, she is no climber, but she swims as much as she is able."

Tristan frowned, he had never heard of her. "I have heard of no princess Lelia," he told the dwarf. Not that that meant very much. He tended to let his mind move to more interesting things when topics like that came up. His father could well have mentioned it.

"She is no princess," Tyrion confirmed, "she shares no blood with the King, she is the first daughter of my brother."

Tristan was still confused, "your brother is of the Kingsguard is he not?" Kingsguard couldn't father children.

"My other brother," Tyrion told him, "my brother Loren, born four years before me, the unknown heir of Casterly Rock."

"Why is he not here?" Tristan asked.

Tyrion gave a small laugh. "My brother Loren, well he is… different, able certainly, but different. Besides, and more to the point, he is not currently in Westeros, has not been for three years."

"There are more of you?" Tristan asked, surprised. "I thought you were all here."

"Not all of us," the dwarf replied. "Loren has been gone for quite some time." The dwarf invited Tristan to follow his ring laden hands.

"Why?" Tristan said not having to move fast to keep up with the dwarf, "where is he?"

Tyrion shrugged, "somewhere in the east, as to why and precisely where, Loren's reasons and purpose are his own. Though he would seem to fit your view of the Lannisters, since he left his wife and children behind. I don't think he's even written them since he left.

"Sounds like a lovely man," he muttered

"A bitter man," the dwarf quibbled. "You'd like him." His wolf growled in anger. "So would he I expect."

"Shut up, dwarf," he growled. _Bloody Lannisters._

Tyrion Lannister laughed. "I'll let you finish up your packing, wolf. I'm going to see the Wall, but I look forward to seeing your sword arm in the south. My brother says it is quite something."

He waddled off through the courtyard. Tristan saw him meet with his family, his eyes drifting to Jaime Lannister's smiling face. "Does he now?" He mused to himself before returning to his own preparations, not at all eager to be going south. _Maybe this time I go things will not be so awful._


	7. Book 1 Loren I

_**A/N: JoeDanger: Well it wasn't a secret wedding. Guests were invited, gifts given and Pentos had to prepare for a Dothraki host to handle outside it's walls, given Dragonstone's position on the shipping lanes, and the fact that from there he isn't solely relying on Varys to gather information, he could easily have found out about the wedding.**_

 ** _On another note, here is the last OC. So far it's been pretty introductory, but from next chapter we start getting our first major deviations from the Canon not counting things like Domeric's survival that happened before the story began, so things should be kicking off in earnest. See you then everyone._**

* * *

Hammer on wood, tents rustling in the dust and wind, steel and stone, the sounds of a camp being erected would only permeate the air for a short while. Loren knew that the Golden Company would be done before long, set up with watches, trenches and spiked moats. The tents were set out in a perfect checkerboard, laid out efficiently and perfectly. It would be up to him to set up the outriders and scouts, that was his duty in the Golden Company, had been for over a year. He had four hundred outriders at his command, and in the past year, he had become quite adept at commanding them, he knew just how to make them ride, how far apart they should be from each other, how many should be in a group depending on where they were and their level of conflict. Right now the company war marching to battle in the service of Myr against and alliance of Lys and Tyrosh. Combined the two of them had coffers that far outstripped those of Myr, but still, despite the received offers, the Golden Company would not change sides. This meant that they would be outnumbered, which meant he had more responsibility in the coming battles. But before then, he had to report to the Captain-General's tent, deliver the first reports he had received from the first of his scouts about the size of the opposing forces.

He swung his heavy golden cloak, inlaid with silken threads around his shoulder, fastening it with his lion broach at his left shoulder. He pulled a red silk scarf across his face to block out the sand of the disputed lands from his lungs. Next he fastened his sword belt to his waist. It was a deep red with rubies, emeralds and sapphires set into it. The hilt of his blade had a lion head pommel, as was befitting his house, and was golden. His armour, red, with golden tinting on the trims, was hanging on his armour stand, his scouts would alert him in time for his squire to armour him. "Tyland," he called out to said squire, a twelve year old boy from the branch family of House Lannister that ruled Lannisport. The boy, with short blond hair, sprang to attention. "Keep the tent clear until I return, no one enters." Tyland nodded, and Loren left the tent.

The air was hard and the wind strong, but not so much that he struggled too hard to move. Tents that were half erected were struggling to free themselves from the grasps of the men who held them, whilst men on lookout duty were covering their eyes to block out the dust and sand. Loren simply bent his head and made his way to the command tent, the largest and the one in the middle of the encampment. He nodded to the guards who pulled back the tent flap, letting him inside. It was only Harry Strickland, the Captain-General, Black Balaq, the commander of the archers, Tristan Rivers and the spymaster, Lysono Maar.

"Loren Golden-hair," Tristan exclaimed, smiling. Loren did not smile back, only nodded. He smiled when it was useful to him to do so, otherwise, he saw no need of it.

Harry instead simply asked him, "what news from the scouts?"The Captain General was more a treasurer than a warrior, though still a soldier in truth. Loren had served a year under the last Captain Myles Toyne, they called the man Blackheat, though his heart was a shining vein of gold compared to Lord Tywin Lannister's. Toyne hadn't trusted him though. Even here in the east, the shadow of Lord Tywin hung over him like a pall of darkness, clawing him back into it's shadow whenever he strove to escape it. _I could travel to Yi-Ti and still be under that cloud,_ he'd thought at the time. Captain Strickland was different though. That man had granted him command of the outriders within a month of assuming command of the whole company. For that he would always have Loren's respect.

"The Lyseni forces have made camp on the shore of a small lake, which they are happily fishing bare," Loren told them, pointing to the location on the map. "They appear to be led by a skilled and diligent man, for his outriders screen my own from getting close enough to estimate numbers."

"Numbers are no concern," Harry said, "we can defeat these forces, it will not be an issue."

"There are also no signs of the men from Tyrosh," Loren told them, "my men rode out ten miles and saw no hint that they would be coming this way."

"Because they won't," Lysono Maar said in his soft voice that, like the rest of his body, a whore would envy. "The Tyroshi and Lyseni agreed to an alliance to defeat us, but the Tyroshi have abandoned the agreement, and now march along the coast to Myr itself, leaving the Lyseni alone to face us."

Loren nodded, the plan was sound, "and then we turn back and force march to intercept the Tyroshi before they reach the walls of Myr."

Harry nodded, "exactly," he said.

"Very well then," Loren asked, "what is the battle plan?"

"Not this time Golden-Hair," Tristan Rivers said. "We rotate commands remember, it is your turn to watch the camp and the rearguard whilst the rest of us fight the Lyseni." _Ah yes_ , it was his turn wasn't it. That way the Company didn't rely on one person in one battle position. True the outriders were his, and the archers Blak Balaq's, but he had commanded the left, right, centre and vanguard in his time in the company, and now he'd have the rearguard. That way the company could weather the loss of any one commander.

"Aye," Black Balaq nodded his agreement, his fingers itching near his large bow. "Don't worry, it will be Tristan when we attack the Tyroshi forces." Loren did allow a small smile to grace his features at that. _Hard luck, friend_.

Harry cleared his throat, "all we need you to do is to make sure your outriders do their duty and protect our advance."

Loren nodded, it mattered not to him, he had fought with the company for three years, he was there to war, to be free of Casterly Rock and the shadow of the great and almighty Tywin Lannister, not to lust for blood. Had he been ten years younger he would have been upset, but no longer. "I will do just that," he told them. Harry waved his hand in dismissal, so Loren left to gather his outriders.

They did as he commanded, he told them to first ride in fours, two miles from the camp and keep all enemies away from it, whilst also reporting back to the camp. He said that they were then to split into pairs, one would continue to circle the camp, the others would move out and pick off the isolated outriders of the Lyseni forces. All of his outriders had at least two arm rings, one less than himself, so knew what they were doing, and Loren felt he could trust them to simply get on with their duty and report back to him with anything they needed. Some said that it was irresponsible of him to do so, and that he should oversee the actions of his men in person. However his father would not disagree, Lord Tywin delegated effectively, leaving men who were good at certain tasks to accomplish them with minimal oversight.

Then Loren, as he would be watching over the camp during the upcoming battle, walked the perimeter of the camp, as per usual, it was in fine shape, the Golden Company rarely needed direction when it came to this, Loren had never needed to intervene when it had been his duty to watch the camp of the company.

Once his inspection was done, Loren ordered a bath to be filled so that he may wash some of the muck off him. Once the attractive serving maid had filled his tub, smiling as she did so, Loren dismissed her and Tyland, listening to the far off sounds of the camp at night. Loren rarely got involved. He had struck up quite a friendship with some of the officers and outriders here, more than he had at Casterly Rock. He had left his wife, Alysanne, and his four children, and come here to be free of the stifling atmosphere of the Rock. He could still see his children's faces, Lelia, she would be thirteen now, Myrielle would be eleven, Joanna ten and his son Tion would be approaching his ninth name day.

He sank deeper into the hot water, imagining his laughing children. Despite the soft brown hair and light blue eyes of his wife, his children had been Lannister in appearance. Tion had the blue eyes, but apart from that, his children were all golden lions. When the water started to cool, Loren pulled himself out of the tub and dried off. He pulled a silk robe over himself and sat on the bed, the water from his short blonde hair trickling down the back of his neck. He heard footfalls running in the direction of his tent and slowly half drew his sword. However, it was only his squire. "Tyland?" Loren asked, "what are you doing here?"

"F-forgive me ser," he said, out of breath a little, "but one of the outriders, they asked me to bring you, armed and ready to ride, they have caught a party of armed travellers." Loren nodded, slightly unsure as to why they needed him, but it mattered little.

"Very well," he said, "my armour." Tyland nodded and pulled on Loren's silk undershirt before applying the full plate that he wore. He tied Loren's sword belt on him, fastening his heavy cloak to his shoulders. Unlike the one he wore when out of armour, this heavy golden cloak was too heavy for one clasp at the throat so was instead held by two fastenings, one on each shoulder. Lastly, Tyland passed him his helm. It had no visor, only a noseguard, he didn't want to impede his vision as commander of the Outriders. This left his lower face exposed, but the gorget of his armour rose from his left shoulder to block out his face from blows aimed to it. The helm had a rampant lion atop it, which was holding a spike that could become a weapon, at last resort. Loren nodded when armoured and marched from the tent to the nearest stable, where his powerful destrier was tethered, mounting it, and, when Tyland had mounted his own horse, riding out to meet his outriders as the sky was turning from orange to black.

He found the twelve of them surrounding eight riders, all in heavy armour and full helms, outfitted for war, but that was not too unusual, there was little trade in the disputed lands. He pulled his horse up as he reached them. "What seems to be the problem?" Loren asked the nearest outrider.

"This one," he man pointed his javelin to the central rider, "was asking for you by name."

"By name?" Loren spurred his horse forward and approached the indicated rider. "Who are you that you would want to speak with me?"

"Once you knew me on sight," said a voice, "I do so hope it is only the armour, nephew."

Loren's eyebrows shot up as his uncle, Kevan Lannister, removed his helm and looked at him sternly. "Uncle Kevan," Loren had never been so shocked in front of his men, "what are you doing here?"

"I have a matter to discuss with you," Kevan said, "may we accompany you to the camp?"

Loren's lips thinned, _why by the gods are they here._ "If you desire it," he said mockingly. He turned to his Outriders. "Take their weapons."

"Loren?" Kevan asked.

"What?" He asked. "You don't think I'm about to let you enter the camp of the Golden Company so armed. I can say nothing of your intentions or purpose here. I'd be a fool, and disregarding my duty to the Company." He turned back to his men. "As I said, take their weapons, use whatever force you need. Don't resist Uncle, it would be unfortunate for me to have to chain you up and take you back as a prisoner. Kevan didn't look eager, but was outnumbered and his Lannister pride would never let him be brought in bondage, so he agreed.

His men moved in, their unshakeable discipline making them obey without question. Once the knights had surrendered their lances and swords, Loren kicked his horse into action and rode hard for the camp, he was not eager to speak with Kevan, but if he had to, would do so in the privacy of his tent.

Upon seeing that he was leading them, Kevan and his knights were not forced to dismount, and instead followed him to the stables, tied up their horses, and accompanied him to the tent he occupied. Loren invited them to sit down and called for wine from a passing serving girl of the company. "So, uncle," Loren said, sitting down himself. "To what do I owe the pleasure, of such an excursion?"

Kevan and the knights looked around the otherwise bare tent. "May we sit?"

"No."

He did not look most pleased at being denied. _Not so easy is it Kevan?_ "I will be blunt with you, nephew," Kevan said. He watched as Loren poured himself some wine, offering them none. "Your father needs you back at Casterly Rock."

Loren was expecting something like this, you do not make social visits to the Golden Company, or the disputed lands, you come with a clear objective and leave as soon as possible. "Interesting. The great Lord Tywin of Casterly Rock _needs_ me. It must be deadly serious, what's happened?" Loren asked, smacking his lips unnecessarily loudly.

Kevan nodded, "the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn is dead," he told him.

Loren nodded, he didn't know the man enough to judge him, but he was certainly old, and unlike his father, didn"t loom eternal. "So…" he said thinking, "father has been named Hand of the King and needs me to serve as Castellan of Casterly Rock?" He mocked. Robert would never name his father Hand of the King, and Tywin would hardly send his best servant to find one the world would rather forget.

Kevan shook his head. "That is not the case. Tywin is suspicious about the death of Jon Arryn, the man was quite robust for the sudden death that took him. The house must be prepared for what is to come."

"Hardly suspicious. Lord Arryn was old, what of it, a new Hand will be named and the world will continue as normal. I left Casterly Rock," he added. "One day I will return, but it will be on a day of my choosing. Not father's."

"Loren?" Kevan chastised.

 _That tone! Always that tone!_ "No, uncle!" Loren snarled. "You will not take that tone with me, not here, not now. This is not Casterly Rock." Choosing to leave Casterly Rock had been the most liberating choice in his life. He would return, one day, even if his father refused to accept it, Casterly Rock would be his, and he would need to be there to claim it when Lord Tywin died. But he was still looming eternal, so Loren was here, where he was judged by his skills for what they were. _Lord Tywin's words may come from another, but always they come to scorn!_

"What of your children, do you not miss them?"

Loren scoffed. "Of course, a thousand times more than my father misses me, I'm sure. This place is good for me, good company, good men. But it is no place for Aly... or the children. Even Lord Tywin's golden cage would be better for them." Only his wife had ever known his intentions to leave before he had done so. She'd tried to convince him to stay, but she'd not forbidden his leaving, swearing only that she'd be there when he got back.

Kevan sighed, "your father wants you to be the best."

"The best for him, not for me. I have no reason to return."

"Except for your children," Kevan pointed out.

Loren slumped back down. "How are they?"

Kevan gave a slight smile. "Overjoyed that you will be returning, all of them. Lelia has still been swimming as much as she can."

Loren laughed dryly, "I would have thought that father would have put a stop to that."

"Tyrion spends most of his time at Casterly Rock," Kevan explained, "your father is mostly pre-occupied with running his lands and making sure that Tyrion does nothing rash again."

"Ah," Loren said, that explained it. Everyone knew Tyrion was trouble. _And they don't know me at all._ "And the others?"

"Myrielle and Joanna both progress well in their lessons," Kevan explained. "They cannot wait to see you and have you praise their progress." Loren smiled and nodded. "Tion is doing well with his training, we believe that he will be a fine knight himself, before he becomes lord of Casterly Rock."

Loren nodded, "I am glad," he said. "When I return... when I choose to return, I will see them then."

"You'll want to see them now. They are glad you are coming only because we have told them. If you stay out here much longer you may never know them."

"I've been at the Rock all my life. Father doesn't know me. Proximity means nothing to knowledge of another."

"And they will not know you," Kevan cut across him. His father did that, whenever he didn't want to hear what another was saying.

"I send them letters," Loren reminded his uncle. "I admit it's a poor substitute, but better that than suffocate at the-" Kevan dropped a pile of papers on the table. He reached out and took one. "My letters," he whispered, they were still sealed shut with golden wax. He crumpled the paper in his soldier's fingers, the rustle of the parchment cracking and folding and crumbling delicious in the silence. "Father hasn't been letting them see the letters."

Kevan just stared at him. "If you wish to know your children, or for them to know you, you must return and serve as a Lannister."

He cursed. "Damn you father. No doubt Lord Tywin is overseeing their educations?"

"He is."

 _So you'd take my children as hostages for my return, your own grandchildren. Damn you to the Seven Hells father. Damn you and you plots. You try to take everything from me. You will not take them as well._

"I have a duty to the Company," he said. "We have two battles to fight first of all. Then... then I'll return with you, uncle."

"I'm glad, and I'm sure your father is as well."

 _Uncle Kevan should be glad he doesn't look more like father. If he did, I'd drive my fist down his throat._


	8. Book 1 Lyonel II

Lyonel had both his mace and his bow when he left the ship that morning. The Targaryen would be there shortly, her escort and litter passing down the street to go outside the city to find the Dothraki waiting for them. Lyonel absently wondered what would happen to the city when they had stolen the princess, little good, he imagined. But it matted even less, Pentos was one of, if not the weakest of the Free Cities, and poor since Braavos had outlawed slavery there, though the magisters got around this with indentured service and making their servants become in debt to them. Saerra would be saved from that, as would her children, and he may even be saving them from slaughter and fire, if the Dothraki took too much offence to what Lyonel was about to do. _Warrior give me strength_ , he thought, he would need it.

He had tethered his horse up to a market stall, behind the crowd. As good as he was with his dragonbone bow, he could not fire nearly as accurately from horseback. His first shot had to be accurate and precise, it would be the signal for the ambush and his men were waiting, heavily armed and impatient to attack.

Saerra had arrived at the ship that morning, with her two children, and was currently aboard it, safe and ready. He had already sent a message home to his mother to tell her about it and to find her a place in the castle. Now, he just had to wait for the Targaryen Princess" litter to arrive.

"Do you have a clear line my lord?" Ser Aerion asked.

Lyonel arched his neck to look over them. He shook his head. "I will scale the building when she appears. The pointy hatted eunuchs assigned to guard her will be on the lookout and I do not want to be up there for too long." Aerion nodded and returned to his horse. Lyonel stroked the smooth black dragonbone. He remembered when he and his sister had shown their mother. He had taken the bone from the Dragon skulls in the dungeons of the Red Keep and had the two bows fashioned. When they had gone back to Dragonstone two days later, they had shown their mother who had slapped them both furiously for taking the bone without asking. They knew their mother loved them both, but she had always dealt out harsh lessons. After slapping them she had taken the bows away until they had proved themselves worthy of them. When she thought they were, which was when they had beaten her in a contest, she returned the bows to them.

He hear the litter that was carrying the Targaryen approaching and, when the first of the escort of eunuchs with pointed hats turned the corner, Lyonel pulled his hood up and swiftly scaled the wall with a ladder his men had set up for him. When up there he notched an arrow into his bow and scanned over the escort. It was made up of two dozen Unsullied men and a few more retainers like the city watch, equipped with scale armour, spears and shields. It was strong enough to hold off the crowd, not near a hundred armoured knights. Targeting one of the Unsullied eunuchs, Lyonel swiftly drew and released his arrow. It sailed through the air and punched deep into the chest of the eunuch, who collapsed with a grunt.

Lyonel's second shaft was already flying through the air when the screams began. The crowd scattered as Lyonel's knights charged out of the alleys and hacked down the shocked and immobile escort, only the eunuchs attempting to stand and fight. Three more of Lyonel's arrows found their marks before he stowed his bow away and quickly descended the ladder. He rushed over to the litter. A guard tried to stop him with a spear thrust, but Lyonel spun, unhooking his mace as he did so, and slammed it into the guard's face, shattering and scattering bone and brains. He swiftly pulled back the curtain of the litter and looked for the Targaryen. He couldn't miss her, she bore the distinctive silver hair and purple eyes of her house. She had to be the one. "Who are you?" She whispered pleadingly.

Lyonel had no time to answer, he reached over and seized her thin, pale arm, dragging her out of the carriage.

"Let go of me!" She screamed, flailing .

Lyonel grunted as a swinging arm swatted him in the face. "Enough!" He roared, sinking a fist into her stomach, making her double up, gasping for air.

Her mouth still moved, trying to cry for help, her eyes wet and her fingers clenching and unclenching, her feet pushing on cobbles, trying to find footing. He clamped slung her over his shoulder like a sack and carried her to his horse. His men were scattering the last of the crowd that was nearby. "Aerion!" He yelled, and the young knight looked over to him, blood coating his sword. "Give me a hand!" He swiftly dismounted and rushed over. Lyonel got up on the saddle and Aerion helped pass up the silent and feeble Targaryen. Lyonel held her fast, keeping her strong to him. "Get the men to come back to the ship, we have what we came for." Aerion nodded and rushed back to his horse to gather the men. Lyonel knew he couldn't wait for them and spurred his horse into action.

Men and women scattered out of his way as he charged down cobbled streets. The Targaryen's voice was returning, and she was screaming at the top of her lungs as Lyonel held her tightly with his left hand, the reins with his right. The streets rushed by in a medley of colour and noise, men and women running to and from the sounds of the carnage, curious and terrified in equal measure, horses broke free from stalls and ran down the street, rains dragging along the ground like silent chains as owners chased after them. But they all scattered before him and the knights that would be following. The men of the Pentoshi city watch were mostly out watching the walls and, more importantly, the Dothraki Khalasar outside them. Those in the city were too few and had too little training to stop him, for they were the weakest of them all.

Glancing over his shoulder, Lyonel spotted that his knights were following him, hard on his heels. A smile graced his lips, and he spurred his horse on still faster, determined to make it swiftly to the dock. He and his men were faster than the news it seemed, for no one on the docks was in a hurry until they saw him charging down towards his ship. "Maric!" He yelled, and the Seaworth appeared on the prow, "make ready!" Maric nodded and disappeared once more. Lyonel had to pull hard on the reins to get his hoarse to stop at the docking ramp. He swiftly pulled himself off his horse and looked back once more. His knights were still following him, _good_. "He dragged her from the horse and carried her up the ramp.

The crew were pulling on the ropes and unfurling sails. Looking up to the plain flag atop the mast, Lyonel saw they had the wind with them. Good, they needed to make a getaway as soon as possible. His men had been unable to determine whether the harbour had a boom chain or not, but they needed to be past it before it was raised, if there was one, but his father had always taught him not to take chances on matters like this, and, as future master of ships, he knew the danger of boom chains.

His knights were now trickling onto the ship, pulling their horses behind them, their weapons now sheathed. He turned to Rolland Storm, the first Knight he saw. "Make sure she gets to her cabin and stays there," he told him indicating the Targaryen. Then Lyonel turned to Maric. "How long?"

Maric was grimacing up at the sail. "We have some tangled rigging, it may take a short while."

Lyonel cursed, pulled out his bow, notched an arrow, and raced to the stern of the ship. It would not have taken that long, given the screaming and scattering crowd, for news to have reached the impatient and angry Dothraki, and the Pentoshi City Watch. Sure enough, before long, some scale armoured men began racing down the jetty. Lyonel pulled back and released the bow string, sending an arrow straight into the chest of the first of them. This made the others raise their shields and move more cautiously. _Good_ , he thought, _slow down you cowards_. He aimed another arrow, this one just to make sure they didn't speed up again. But as he was just about to launch it, the deck heaved as the ship cast off. This made his arrow fly far wide of the target. He winced at the sight of the shot, it did not even land in the jetty, instead sliding without a splash, which was hardly a comfort, into the sea. He hoped none had seen that shot and glanced around to check. If one of them told his sister, she would never let him live it down.

"My Lord," Lyonel turned, it was His uncle Rolland. "she is in her cabin, we have given her a cloak to warm up with but no change of dress until she returns to Dragonstone."

Lyonel nodded, "that matters not," he said, "my father wanted her with him alive and pure. Fresh was not a requirement."

"DAENERYS!" A voice shrieked from down the jetty. Lyonel and Rolland turned and saw a man with silver hair riding hard down the jetty. Two shirtless Dothraki Warriors behind him.

"This must be the brother," Lyonel commented to Rolland. He notched another arrow. "We don't need him." He drew and released. Like a bird the arrow flew right where Lyonel wanted it to. It punched right through the middle of his face.

He heard Rolland wince, "that must have hurt." Viserys Targaryen, if that was him, slumped off his saddle and bounced off the jetty arms twisting and turning like one of his sister's rag dolls, into the harbour with a splash. He bobbed on the surface like a twig for a few seconds as the water soaked into his clothes, but he was soon dragged down, the air in his shirt bubbling to the surface like a fart in a bathtub.

"Maybe," Lyonel replied, slipping his bow away, the ship was moving too fast now for them to catch up. "Or maybe he just died." He turned and made his way back to the centre of the ship. "Now though, I suppose I should probably go and see our guest."

He found Daenerys Targaryen huddled on the bed, unsure and scared by everything. She recoiled when he entered, bow in hand. "Who are you? Where are you taking me?" She asked, in a stronger voice than she had possessed on the horse.

"I am taking you to Dragonstone." She looked confused, her eyes showed a hint of reflection, like a word on the tip of your tongue, lost in the chaos of her capture. "My name is Lyonel Baratheon, my father is Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone."

"Baratheon!" She all but shrieked. "You want to kill me, and my brother, he said they were after us."

"I do not want to kill you," he said firmly, speaking over her fearful tones. "If I wanted to, you would be dead. If my father wanted to, you would be dead. As for your brother; he is dead."

"You want me dead as well. I know it, my brother knows-knew it, you want me dead, you have for years, ever since I was born!" She screeched, huddling into the smallest ball she could. Like that could stop him. Foolish girl. _No remorse for her brother's passing though, she must think me a bigger concern, sisters should mourn brothers, Shireen would be beside herself if I died. Brothers and brothers are a different story, just ask father, but brothers and sisters love each other._

"Not true," he told her simply, "I seek nothing from you, Daenerys Targaryen, it is my father who wants something from you."

"What?"

"I do not know," he told her simply. "I obey my father, I do not question him. But rest assured, he does not want you dead. You will be safe on Dragonstone."

She looked less fearful than before, like she was coming to the realisation that she couldn't leave, and the acceptance that fear wouldn't help her here, but still not trusting, as expected though entirely un useful. Then her eyes widened. "What is that?" She asked, pointing to his shoulder.

He glanced at it, and saw that the fold of his cloak was exposing his Greyscale scars. He pulled it up quickly. "Nothing," he said.

"Why does the Usurper want me?" She asked. "I have done nothing to him."

"My father is not the man you call the Usurper," Lyonel replied. "That is my uncle, Robert, and he had nothing to do with my coming to get you."

He thought he saw a flash of fear and hatred at the mention of his uncle. "He stole the throne," she said, "and now he wants my life, and my brother's."

"Your brother is dead," Lyonel repeated. "I killed him as he raced towards the ship." Her eyes sparked with… was it relief? "And as for the throne, he was the only alternative, your father was mad and your brother a kidnapping rapist. He, as your second cousin, was the Lord of the Rebellion closest to the throne, so it passed to him."

She was clearly shocked. "What do you mean, my father was mad?"

"They call him the Mad King for a reason, it was an earned Moniker."

"They called him the Mad King?" She whispered.

Lyonel sighed, it was clear she knew nothing about what had happened seventeen years previously. He looked around and pulled up a chair. "It seems I have a lot to tell you," he said. "I should start at the beginning. The Tourney at Harrenhal was where it all began, when your brother Rhaegar passed over his wife to crown the daughter of Lord Stark his Queen of Love and Beauty." And so Lyonel recounted to Daenerys Targaryen the reason she had been forced into exile from the Seven Kingdoms.


	9. Book 1 Tristan III

House Darry, former Targaryen Loyalists during the rebellion no doubt were angered by Robert having taken up residence there on their way back to King's Landing. But there was nothing Raymun Darry could do but bare it and wait for them to leave. Tristan was fully aware that his father disliked the delays probably as much as the Lord of Darry, but the queen's carriage was moving at a snail's pace and she needed her beauty sleep and several hours to ready her hair and dresses. Tristan was beginning to wonder what would take the king longer, getting to Winterfell and back or fighting the rebellion.

Still, Tristan thought as he dumped his sword belt on the bed of his assigned chambers and strode over to the window. It could be much worse. There could be no female companionship.

He turned to the Lannister handmaiden who had followed him in. It had taken very little time to seduce this one. A few compliments, a few touches nearing on the inappropriate, done throughout the weeks since leaving Winterfell, and she had agreed. Then he had simply held off until they reached the south to make her more willing, more wanton. She was a pretty enough thing, with dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes, accentuated by the fine clothes she was wearing. She was unlacing her dress slowly. He could not tell with this one whether she was a maiden or a woman. It made little difference to him, she was wet and willing, and that was all he needed. He approached her slowly and pulled off his tunic, dropping it to the floor. Then he cupped her face softly, leant down and kissed her. Few women expected kisses, he had found, give them one and they were far more likely to have you, they were not the weapons of women alone.

She kissed him back softly, her fingers tracing along his chest. Her dress dropped to the ground, revealing a soft body with small breasts. "Beautiful," he told her. He did not necessarily mean it, but it never hurt to say it.

"Thank you, my lord," she replied breathily. She kissed his chest, her fingers still tracing along it, as though she were searching for something. "You don't bare any scars, my lord?"

Tristan smiled at her, "no, I do not," he said simply, leaning down and kissing her neck. "Should I have?"

"We-" she broke off and gasped when he pushed a finger into her hot and wet sheath. "We heard that the melee at Highgarden was quite a display."

"It was," Tristan agreed. "But I bear no battle scars."

She gasped as he pushed a second finger inside her. "I thought all knights bore scars?" She said, her voice shaking a little as Tristan teased her.

"I am no knight," Tristan replied simply. "Why should I have scars? A scar would mean I had been injured, which means I made a mistake. I _never_ make a mistake, now, no more talking." He was done talking, he lifted her up and sealed his mouth over hers. Then he pushed her against the wall and thrust inside her.

He felt a warmth around his cock that he recognised all too well. He smiled into the kiss as he realised he had deflowered her. He slowed down his thrusts, he did not want to hurt her too much, and rested his forehead against hers. He had thought that she might have been so suggestible because she was a spy for the queen. But she was not spying if she was a maiden, not unless she was truly devoted. He had not been planning to take her to the bed, but a woman should experience that on their first time, so he lay her atop the covers and thrust into her until he was nearly done.

"P-please," she murmured as she neared her release, "not inside me, the queen would never-" He silenced her with a kiss. He knew that the queen would not take kindly to one of her handmaidens bearing a Stark bastard. So, at the moment of his release, he pulled out, spilling over her belly instead of in it.

They were both panting. They both looked down, Tristan smiled when he saw her maiden's blood on his cock. "There is no sight so beautiful as a bloody sword," he muttered to her, and she giggled lightly, still out of breath. Tristan, not wanting to decorate Lord Darry's sheets with her blood, wiped it off him using the inside of his tunic, before he pulled it and his breeches on once more. She was still lying on the bed. "Come back tonight," he whispered in her ear, as he fastened his sword belt across his chest, so the handle was above his right shoulder, "and there will be more for you." She nodded, and got up on shaky legs as Tristan left to go for a walk.

Tristan's wolf, which he had left outside, and still not named, quickly stood up and trotted after him. They made their way outside to the godswood, where Tristan hoped to find Cley. While Daryn and Domeric were unable to come south on such short notice, Lord Medger Cerwyn had permitted Cley to come south and serve as Tristan's squire in the Melee. He was, however, not to compete, despite being more than able, in Tristan's mind. But at fourteen, he was a bit young. He found the young lordling was sitting under the heart tree. It was not a weirwood this far south, and to Tristan it seemed almost false, like the whole bloody garden. Godswoods should be left a little wild at least, left to grow, for the Old Gos to slumber and sleep, but in the south they seemed to love trimming it to the image of ideal human perfection, arrogance. "Cley," he called out, and his friend stood up. His dark brown hair flowing in the southern wind and his eyes, of the same colour, bright and cheerful. "Anything happening?"

"Your sisters have gone off," Cley explained. Patting Tristan's wolf lightly. "Arya went exploring and Sansa went off with the prince."

"That sounds just like both of them," Tristan replied, slinging himself onto the ground beside his friend, closing his eyes and taking a whiff of the sweet breeze in the air. He did not doubt Arya was enjoying her last bit of freedom before the Red Keep and Sansa could hardly stop talking about the prince. It had made Tristan sick when Joff had claimed that the thin white scar across his temple was a battle wound. That was not a battle that he had fought, to all it one was just like calling this godswood a godswood, they shared an appearance, but nothing of the heart of it.

Cley looked at him side on. "What about you?" He asked. Tristan raised his eyebrows. "The woman," Cley clarified, blushing a little.

Tristan grinned and clapped Cley on the back, what it was to be so innocent. "We'll find you a woman at some point Cley, don't you worry?" Cley blushed a deeper red. "She was alright, I've had better and much worse."

Suddenly, his wolf growled, his muzzle close to the ground and fangs bared. Tristan moved his hand slowly to his sword, but it was only the younger Prince Tommen, Princess Myrcella and one of the Kingsguard. His wolf stopped growling and Tristan dropped his hand when he saw who it was. They were no threat.

He turned back to Cley. "Are we to stay here long, do you know?" Cley shrugged his shoulders. Tristan sighed and stretched his arms, deciding to climb the heart tree of the Godswood. He stood and took several paces back, then ran to it speeding up rapidly as he did so, and leapt, seizing the lower branch and hauling himself up. Cley was following more slowly. He climbed trees as many children did but was not as adept as Tristan was. Tristan pulled himself up swiftly, from branch to branch until he was near the top of the tree. He poked his head out of the green leaves and looked around outside the castle. There was a small camp set up so that the menials did not overrun Lord Darry's castle. He could see the trident from here, even the Ruby Ford, where Rhaegar had fallen to the current King. He didn't like the look of the south, it was too tame, too... ordered, there was no wildness or ferocity. The North would always be his home.

Just after Cley came up to join him. They heard voices from the bottom of the tree. "It's a wolf," one of them said.

"You should stay away from it prince," a far older one said.

Tristan sighed. He supposed that he should not leave them with his wolf for long. So he dropped down through the branches until he was hanging from a low enough branch that he would not harm himself on the fall. The two royals jumped when he landed not far from them. "He is harmless," Tristan said when he stood up, "unless I say otherwise." He whistled and the wolf bounded over to him. The royals looked intrigued, the knight of the Kingsguard, less so. He stroked the head. "Do you want to touch him?" He asked.

They both nodded, the girl faster, surprisingly. They came tentatively over and the knight put his hand on his sword, ready to draw it. Tristan knew he was waiting for his wolf to attack the royals, but Tristan would kill him if he lay so much as a finger on his wolf. The girl stretched out her hand and Tristan scratched his wolf behind the ear, making him walk gently up to her and nuzzle her hand softly.

She laughed and withdrew her hand. "He feels strange" she said.

"He is a bit," Tristan conceded, as Cley joined them from the tree. "But he is tame."

The princess beckoned her brother forward. He was more tentative than his sister, but he was also cute in a fat, wobbly kind of way.

It felt like they spent a couple of hours having fun in the godswood. The royals got along well with him and Cley, but they were interrupted by Lady Shireen. "Lord Tristan" she called out. Tristan, who was lazing under the tree, looked over to her. "Your father is looking for you," she looked a little flustered and out of breath, her chest heaving and her hair a little wild from running.

"Why?" He asked, vaguely curious about whether or not his father, or the Queen, had found out he had bedded her handmaiden?

"It is your sister," she said, and Tristan sat up quickly. "Lady Arya attacked Prince Joffrey and ran off."

Tristan bolted out of the Godswood like an arrow from a bow.

They spent three days looking for Arya and they weren't alone Lannister, Baratheon and Stark men with hounds combed the woods in packs, looking for the lone wolf and it's child, but none could find sight or scent of his little sister. Tristan was all but praying that his wolf would be able to find her, the wolves were litter mates, just as he and Arya were, perhaps the bond between the wolves would lead Tristan to Nymeria and with her, Arya.

"Come on Arya," he muttered to himself. "Where are you?" His wolf was sniffing the ground, moving fast through the undergrowth. "ARYA!" He yelled. He had been looking for hours, but it was getting dark, and soon they'd have to call it enough for the third day in a row.

Something burst from the undergrowth and slammed into him, he spun and slammed whatever it was against the tree, his other hand going to his dagger. But this was no danger. "Arya," he gasped, letting go of her shirt and wrapping his arms around her. "You little devil, don't rush at me like that."

"I'm sorry," she whispered again and again. "It's been so long I... I..."

Tristan leant down and kissed her on the top of her head, she looked so hungry, and bleary eyes, like she hadn't slept. "Hush now," he said. "I'm sorry for snapping, and for the tree, I'm just glad you're safe." Behind his sister, his wolf was still sniffling at the ground, looking for Nymeria."

"I'm glad you are well Arya," Cley said, and Arya hugged him too, Cley returning it awkwardly.

"Arya, where's Nymeria?"

She shook her head, her eyes welling up with tears and turning to avoid his gaze. "I had to get her away. She wouldn't go, so I had to throw stones at her. The Prince he... he was going to have her hurt."

His rage boiled in him. Their wolves were part of them, they belonged together. But even so. Arya had made the right choice. Jaime Lannister had sided with his family before, and if he did again, Tristan wouldn't be able to stop him from killing Nymeria. He wasn't good enough. Perhaps this way, Nymeria would have a chance. Perhaps they all would. They could always find her later... "If she's anything like you, she'll be fine," he said. "We're survivors, us wolves, and they are as well."

She sniffed, but nodded, her grey eyes iron where before they had been water.

"Tristan," Cley warned, and they spun. Five Lannister guardsmen came rushing towards them.

"Lord Tristan," the first of them said. "Give us the Lady Arya, we are to deliver her to the Queen."

Tristan drew his sword from his back, twisting it in his grip effortlessly, the spike on the pommel glinting in the light of the setting sun, burning a bright red with the blood that would wet it before long, Cley drew his own and joined him. "I am taking her to my father, you will let us pass."

"We have orders," he said firmly.

"I am giving you new ones," Tristan said. "Return to the Queen and tell her that she will be with my father."

The Lannister men drew their swords. Tristan smiled. "Go on then," he told them. "Arya, Cley, get back."

"But-"

"Now Cley, stay behind me, watch my sister." Cley moved back carefully as he stepped forwards.

They charged, Tristan knocked the sword of the first one aside, punching him in the jaw to stagger him and then drove his sword into his side. The next two came at him together, one attacked high the other low. In a flash, his sword deflected both attacks, stopping the guardsmen in their tracks. Tristan spun and cut low, his blade scything deep into the leg of one guardsman, his leg shooting out in a kick that sent him spawling. He plunged his sword quickly into the ground and slammed into the guardsman, driving a fist into his jaw, two teeth flying from his mouth, before he took the man's sword wrist in his hands and gave a deft twist. With a crack like a whip and a cry of pain the sword clattered useless to the ground. A quick look told him that the toothless lion was getting to his feet again and the other two were advancing, swords raised. He seized the knife of the man he was grappling and drove it into his throat, ripping outwards with a shower of blood, a spurt of it hitting him in the face, the taste warm and wet on his tongue, the heat of it invigorating him, fuelling his flames. He flipped the knife deftly and hurled it at one of the advancing men, the handle of the knife singing a song off his helmet before it spun uselessly off into the ground. The other broke into a charge. He pushed the lion with the pulsing, bloody throat aside and reached back for his blade. Without the time or space to turn the blade on him, he drove forwards, catching the lion's sword arm with his left hand while driving the spike on the pommel of his sword into his face with the other, the sound of cartiliage beneath the metal singing a sickeningly beautiful song to his ears. He pulled back and spun the sword, charging forwards towards the lion with the singing helm and with a single great slash, cut clean through his throat so fast that barely a flicker of blood was left on his blade. He spun like a dancer, sending a fountain of blood through the air before falling face first, one arm flung out above his head like he was trying to swing the grassy sea.

Behind him, his sister screamed.

Tristan spun to see the toothless lion was rushing for her, Cley between them, looking brave but too busy watching him to notice in time. But then it was the lion screaming. Tristan's wolf slammed into him in a grey ball of fury and flesh, fangs ripping at the man's face until all that was left was a gory canvass of blood and bone. Some of his bites had torn the flesh away all the way to the skull underneath.

Only the hamstringed lion was left, clutching at his leg and whimpering pathetically. Tristan knelt behind the man. "You made many crucial mistakes today," he whispered in his ear, relishing in the sounds of pain coming from the man. "First, you thought that the lion on your breast gave you power in the wild, and strength in battle;" he pulled the helm back until it slid off the man's head, leaving his hair a brown messy mop on his head, the helm hanging around his neck like a cape. "Second, you tried to battle the wolves, and third and most importantly," h grabbed the helm and began twisting it, watching the leather strap dig into his neck, tighter and tighter with every twist. He gasped for breath and turned first red, then purple, scratching at him with his pathetic lion claws. "You forgot that wolves protect their own." With a sudden crack the man spasmed, his fingers twitching like a child eager to get at a new toy, his eyes wide and bulging, nearly popping from his skull, then he fell to the ground, still and silent.

Tristan let the lion fall to the dirt and called his wolf to him and stroked him softly. "What a shield you are," he said softly. He had stood between those he loved and those who would harm them. A perfect shield.

That was it, Shield. "You are Shield," he said firmly. The wolf did not object. "I am the sword, and you are the Shield. I like it."

"Tristan," Cley said, sheathing his sword, a little unnerved at the strangled lion. "We should get back before we are found by more."

Tristan nodded and told Arya to move. He looked down at his shirt. There were splashes of blood on it. _At least questions won't be asked about the maiden's blood on it_. He thought. Now he just had to get his sister to his father and hope he wasn't found by more Lannisters. The Queen would not be happy if he killed all her guardsmen on the way back to Castle Darry.


	10. Book 1 Eddard II

Ned was more relieved than he had ever been when Tristan, Cley and Arya returned. He was less than relieved when the King summoned all of them before him in order to end the issue. They made their way to the Great Hall of Castle Darry, Tristan having chained Shield up first. Tristan told him the name he had given his wolf, and Ned smiled. It was a good name, and he hoped that the wolf would be a shield to his son. He turned to Jory and said, "make sure Sansa is in her room."

Jory grimaced, "when the Queen heard that Arya was back, but not in the hands of her men, she had Sansa brought to her."

" _Damn_ that woman," Ned cursed.

"She can't do that," Tristan said, "Sansa has done nothing."

"She is a witness to the attack," said Jory, "or that is what the Queen said."

He, Tristan, Arya and Cley strode across the courtyard of the castle. They would have run, but they had to keep the dignity of the North. Darry, Stark and Kings men were crowded into one castle that was not too large, tensions were running hot and high and Ned was eager to get this done. But with such a crowd in the Great Hall, this would not be possible. With Robert alone, Ned would have been able to settle it amicably. _Damn the Lannister woman._ He had led searches himself for three days, barely sleeping. He'd been so tired that morning he could barely stand, but now his fury filled him with the energy he needed.

The tensions in the throne room were hot and heavy. Raymun Darry had fought beneath Rhaegar's banner at the trident, and he had lost his brothers on that field. Now the man who slew his prince was guesting beneath his roof. Not caring for that, Tristan rushed over to Sansa and hugged her fiercely. "Are you okay?" He asked his sister, who nodded. Ned was glad, he would have done it himself but now people would not see how much he cared for them. In the South, such knowledge was deadly. However, Tristan then released his sister and turned his attention, and anger to the Queen. "You had _no_ right to take her from her chambers!"

"Do not speak to me that way," the Queen replied venomously, "I am your queen."

"Tristan," Ned called out. He knew Tristan would speak his mind, which could get him killed. "That's enough." Tristan bit his lip and stood down. Robert was slumped in Darry's chair, his face closed and sullen. He'd been committed to the search as well, commanding men to look for Arya with everything they had. When he'd given the order, Ned had been so reminded of the Robert who led at the Trident, bold, determined, never disheartened. Next to him were the queen and Joffrey. Cersei had her hand resting on Joff's shoulder, the boy's arm wrapped in thick silken bandages.

Robert nodded. "Let us get this done," he beckoned Arya forward. Ned nudged her and she went forward. "Tell us what happened child," Robert said, sternly, but fairly. "Tell it all and tell it true, it is a great crime to lie to a king." Robert then looked harshly at his son. "And you, stay silent, you will get your chance, until then, I don't want to hear your mewling."

Arya told the king what had happened. When she got to the part where she took Joffrey's sword and threw it in the river, Tristan sniggered. He held up his hand in apology. The only reason Ned did not berate him, was that Robert had to berate his brother. Renly got up for Robert had told him to leave. "My sincerest apologies brother," he said cheerily. "Maybe at breakfast tomorrow the Prince can regale me once more with the tale of how a girl the size of a rat was able to disarm him." Before the doors shut they heard the roar of his laughter coming from the hall outside.

When Renly Baratheon had left, Joffrey told his tale and it was very different to the one Arya had told. Ned had already heard this story the day she disappeared, he knew it to be false already.

When he had finished his tale, Tristan laughed. Ned put his head in his hand. Between the bouts of laughter, Tristan was still able to speak. "What horse-shit is that?"

"Are you questioning the tale of the crown prince?" Cersei Lannister asked, furiously.

Tristan shook his head, "I am not questioning it, I am denying it."

"Were you there?" She demanded.

"Were you?" Tristan replied then turned to Joffrey. "Next time you want to make up a tale about being attacked, you may wish to compete in a melee first so you know what happens when you get attacked."

"I was attacked," the pale crown prince insisted.

"Tristan, enough," Ned said loudly.

His son looked at him, then nodded, backing down. _If Robb were here this would be much easier_ , Ned thought. "Robert?"

Robert had the look of a man who wanted to be anywhere other than here. "Joff's injured, to be sure, but I see no lasting harm done to the boy. He'll learn to defend himself if he knows what's good for him. And you," he turned to his wife, "will stop being so blind."

"I am the one who defends our son, and I am the blind one! I think not. The Queen stated fiercely, defending her son. "This is not the end," Cersei was fierce, like the lion of her sigil. "Whether my son was too badly injured to remember correctly or not, your sister Crown Prince," she turned to Robert and Ned held his breath, "the girl is a savage and I want her punished."

"Seven Hells!" Robert declared, "she is a child, what do you want me to do, whip her down the street? Children fight, okay, but now, it's over." Robert looked directly at Ned. "Ned, you see that your daughter is disciplined, I'll do the same with my son."

Ned nodded, relieved. "Gladly, Your Grace."

"Joff will bear these scars for the rest of his life," Cersei said much more calmly, but much more dangerously to Robert.

Robert only looked past her to Joffrey. "You let that little girl disarm you?" Joffrey looked away in shame, it was another humiliation in front of others.

Robert got up and began to leave, but Cersei Lannister was not finished yet. "What of the Direwolf?" She asked. "What of the beast that savaged your son?"

Robert let out a breath and Ned felt his heart sink, he saw Arya look frightened and Tristan's eyes become hard as steel. "I forgot about the damned wolf." He turned back to a Lannister tracker.

"We found no trace of the Wolf, your grace."

"No?" Robert asked and he shook his head. "So be it then."

"We have another wolf," Cersei said calmly, a small smile alighting her features as she looked at Ned's son. "Two in fact."

"No!" Tristan said emphatically, no hint of joy or jape in his voice.

Even Robert saw that, "we cannot kill two wolves for the crime of one."

"You cannot kill _any_ wolf for the crime of any other!" Tristan shouted. Ned saw the look in his eyes. It was the same look that so often his brother had. Of all his children, Tristan bore the Wolfsblood. "Tristan, enough, leave. Now!" His son looked at him with eyes hard and hurt. "Your Grace," he said. "May I have a few words with my son, alone? Id also send my daughters to bed, if they are no longer needed."

The King sighed, and the Queen didn't protest, no doubt looking for a chance to see Robert alone and poison his ear. He'd have to get back quickly. "Be quick about it, I want this affair done."

Ned nodded and took Tristan's arm, leading him outside. Beckoning at the heir of Cerwyn, he called Cley to follow them. Jory and Vayon took Sansa and Arya and led them out as well. Just outside, when the doors were shut behind them, Ned turned to Tristan. "Don't say anything," he warned his son. "Now I need you three to listen very carefully. Tristan. I want you to go and release Lady and Shield. Take them with you."

"With me where, father?" He asked.

"North," Ned said. "The Queen won't rest until one of them is dead. I need time to cool the waters. Sansa, you need to make sure Lady goes with Tristan."

"But-"

"No buts," he said, placing a finger to her lips. Her eyes were quivering at the thought of being without Lady. "Right now the prince is angry, men think badly when angry. Let him recover from his bite, spend time with him, then ask him, when he's ready, if he'll permit Lady back. Until then, she is safer in the north than here."

"I... yes father," she said, eyes downcast. She was probably trying to hide tears.

"Father," Tristan's face was darkened. "I came here to fight, not to run back north because some prissy little pretty boy chose to piss off a wolf."

"Enough!" He was saying that all too much to his son. "You will do as I say, Tristan. Go and get the wolves, and leave. You have the money to make it back to Winterfell, keep the wolves there for now. You"ll get plenty of chances to fight in your life, but you're still a boy and still my son. Now do as I command and go!"

"And what if they hunt me?" Tristan asked, folding his arms over his chest.

"If the Queen's guardsmen catch you, do as you will," Ned said. Better her men than his son.

Tristan's lip curled. "I'll pray that they try then," he said. "I'll go father. I'll take them back home."

He pulled Tristan into a hug, gripping him tightly. "Good lad," he said, pulling back.

"Arya, you need to get to bed now," he said.

She nodded, but still wrapped her arms around Tristan's waist and squeezed him. "Tristan," she said, looking up at him imploringly. "Nymeria..."

"Sh," Tristan said, patting her head gently. "If I can find her, I will. I'll take her home as well."

Ned knew that Nymeria could never come south again, but the look of joy on Arya's face... Let her have her dreams, she is still a child of summer. "Thank you," she said.

"Come Sansa," Tristan said. "We'll have to move quickly. Cley, go ready the horses." Cerwyn's heir nodded, and strode from the hall. "Father, we'll need what time we can get."

He nodded. "I'll get you what I can. Just leave the castle quickly. Do not kill anyone, if you do, I won"t be able to protect you, and you will be harming the Starks."

Tristan paused "That's one thing I will never do, father."

"I've always been able to rely on you for it. Now go."

He had Jory take Arya to bed and returned to the hall.

He felt everyone's piercing gazes upon him like a thousand trained arrows ready to turn him into a pincushion. "Well Ned?" Robert asked.

"They are... have come to terms, Sansa is saying goodbye. I'll ask only for a delay, Your Grace."

Robert nodded. "Of course," he said.

"A drink, Robert, I'll need one."

Robert, to his credit, didn't crack a smile at the circumstances. "Some wine," he said. "And you, boy," he snapped at his son who flinched. "Go to your chambers, Barristan, take him. He's not to leave and no one is to enter until I have had words with him."

Joffrey shuffled off, head bowed under Barristan's escort and took him away. Ned sipped at the cup of wine he was given. He didn't feel the taste, just the knot in his stomach, if they were discovered...

But they sat in silence, Robert and he drinking as they waited for word. Eventually Jory came in. He glanced at everyone around the room. "Lord Stark, Lady Sansa is abed, all is ready."

"See to it then, wife," Robert spat with disgust. "I need to finish this cup then go and discipline Joff."

Cersei's green eyes flashed in rage at the mention of Joff's discipline, but chose to ignore it. "Ser Illyn, see to it."

The tongueless knight nodded and left the room.

With that the household dispersed. Cersei wanted them to stay and see, but Robert forbade it. "It will not happen," he said. "Everyone go and sleep, the matter is settled, we ride tomorrow, before breakfast." They'd outstayed their welcome for certain. As the men filtered away, the matter of court settled, Robert, Ned, Jory, Cersei and some men of each of theirs were soon the only ones left. Even Lord Darry left for the chambers he was sleeping in while his own were being used by Robert. He would probably burn the sheets as soon as they were gone, to try an forget that the man who had brought his house low had ever slept there. _Lord Hoster sided with the rebels_ , Ned reminded himself. _If he'd been only loyal to his liege, he would have reaped the benefits_. But the Riverlands had always been divided since the days before the Conquest.

They waited. Ned had almost finished his cup by the time that Ilyn Payne returned, sword clean and no wolf pelt to cover the Queen"s bed. "Where is the pelt Ser Ilyn?" Cersei demanded. The knight opened his mouth and gargled. Meaningless to anyone else, but Ned already knew. Knew when Ilyn had entered. Cersei turned to him, a look of rage on her face. "What have you done Lord Stark? Where are the wolves?"

Ned put down his cup. "With my son," he said. "Both are on their way back north with him."

"What!" She demanded. "You had no right. Your king ordered-"

"Nothing," Ned said. "He simply gave you permission, but he didn't say I couldn't send them away."

"You-"

"They are my family. My wolves. And I am the Hand of the King"

Robert let out a bark of laughter. "He has you there, Cersei," he said, swigging down the last of his wine. "It's true, I gave no orders."

"You must send men after them!"

"No," Robert got to his feet, putting the cup down. "As I said, the matter is settled here and now, and I rather think that I've outstayed myself here. As I said earlier, we will be riding south tomorrow. All of us."

Robert marched down the hall, his Kingsguard falling in step behind him. Cersei turned to him. "I am not an enemy you want to make, Lord Stark."

"Nor am I, Your Grace."


	11. Book 1 Loren II

Lannisport smelled foreign. It lacked the stench of King's Landing, which Loren had only experienced a few times in his life, and the timeless feeling of Oldtown. But it was in the Westerlands, the lands that would one day come to be his, strange that it should seem so... alien. The imposing form of Casterly Rock was clearly visible above the city. Of all the castles in the Seven Kingdoms, only Harrenhal was bigger than the Rock. However, the Rock"s inhabitants invariably lived longer lives than those who made Harrenhal their seat. The ship, with bright red sails and the Lion of Lannister standing rampant on it, made it's way into port to dock at the harbour of Lannisport, where the rest of the Lannister Fleet lay at anchor, their sails furled away. Tyland was staring gleefully over the edge of the ship, and Loren could not fault him, the boy no doubt missed Lannisport as much as he missed the Rock. Loren tore his gaze away from the Rock, for he would be there before long, and instead turned his gaze upon the figures waiting for the ship to dock.

He recognised his father, Lord Tywin Lannister, several distant Lannister cousins, Martyn, Willem, Daven and others, and his own family. His wife, Lady Alysanne Lefford stood tall and elegant, her brown hair waving slightly in the breeze. She was just like he'd remembered, with perhaps a few extra lines around her lips and eyes. Despite being of House Lefford, today, she had donned the Lannister garb of red and gold, with an emerald necklace around her neck. Before her stood their children. He had to double check they were theirs, for unlike his wife they looked so different to how he had last seen them. Lelia was burgeoning into a woman now, but still clearly a child, and Myrielle would not be far behind her by the looks of her. Joanna still had the innocence of childhood about her and had her hands clasped properly in front of her, just as she would've been taught. Tion had shot much taller in the last three years, but was still a boy at heart. He was clearly wishing he could hold his mother's skirts and hide from him. The poor boy may not even recognise him, if only he could feel that towards his own father. But there was no mistaking him. That bald head, shaved as soon as he started moulting, the proud whiskers on his cheeks, the wiry body, still strong, and the gold-green eyes, hard and cold as the metal that made the Lannisters rich.

As the man whom everyone was waiting for, Loren disembarked first. He was wearing the trophies of his time in the east, let his father see his defiance. His scabbard was at his waist, jewels studding the length of it. His and his golden cloak flowing behind his blood red robes, and his arm rings hung on his left wrist. He approached the Lannister clan gathered there. "Father," he greeted first, with a bow of his head, any excuse not to look at the man. "My Lady," he bowed his head to his wife, and then smiled at his children. "Lelia, Myrielle, Joanna," he smiled at his girls who smiled back at him, Lelia eagerly, Myrielle nervously, and Joanna dutifully. He was reminded of what Cersei had once told him, before Tion was born. _"You have no heir yet, and these girls are nothing on what I once was,"_ his sister took any excuse to remind him of how she and Jaime had risen farther than he. "Tion," he smiled at the boy who tentatively smiled back.

But it was his father who spoke, "be done with your greetings quickly my son," he said sharply. "Then meet me back at the Rock, we have much to discuss."

Loren nodded. "Of course father," _I'll spend as much time with them as I bloody well want, father_. Lord Tywin, and the other, far less significant Lannister cousins, all left, leaving Loren alone with his family.

As soon as their grandfather was gone, Myrielle broke from her proper poise and raced over, hugging him around the waist tightly. She was soon joined by Joanna. "My children," he whispered, leaning down and kissing them on top of their heads. "I have missed you." He held them close, the warmth of them... a pleasure he'd forgotten. The memory resurfaced only made his anger at his father burn brighter.

He heard a sob, and it took a while before he noticed that it was Myrielle was weeping. She had always been the most emotional of his children he remembered now, quick to tears, quick to laugh, oh that laugh... "We missed you too, father," she said into his tunic.

Loren forced her to look at him. "Dry your eyes Myrielle," he said softly. "I am home now."

She nodded, "I am sorry," she said.

Loren nodded and turned to Joanna. "And you, Joanna, did you miss me?" She nodded quickly, she was the most reserved of his children, most eager to be ladylike, just like her namesake. Loren had been just nine years old when his mother had died, but he remembered her smile well. At one point, just before her death, she had asked him to sleep in the Jaime's room. Jaime had objected, but Loren did what he had to, and slept in the same bed as Jaime. Loren never understood what Jaime complained about so much, the bed was large enough that they never touched under the covers, and as soon as morning came, Loren went back to his own chambers to change and prepare for the day's events. When their mother died birthing his second brother Tyrion, Loren returned to his own chambers. His father had smiled when he heard what he'd named his daughter. He'd regretted it since, he should've picked a different name, a name that made Tywin smile was a bad name. He chided himself. He shouldn't punish Joanna or think less of her for that. She'd done nothing to deserve it. Joanna then broke down and hugged him swiftly, but moved back before it could be judged as improper.

Lelia only hugged him a little but did kiss his cheek in greeting, she was tamer than she was when he had left. At least she seemed to be. But she still had a grin on her face. "I missed you as well," she said, not waiting for him to ask. "I'm glad you're back, father."

"It's good to be back," he lied. "I'm sorry my letters never reached you."

"What do you mean father?" Lelia asked, confused. "We got your letters. We loved them, hearing of your adventures, listening to your advice."

"You-" _Father!_ He must have resealed the letters and given them to Kevan.

She kissed his other cheek, "thank you, father. For coming home, now you can tell us about them in person."

So innocent at heart, whatever her adventurous side. He'd never had such a luxury. He'd let her have it as long as he could. "I'll tell you all about them," he said.

Then, when Lelia pulled back, he turned to Tion. The boy had been staying with his mother, but at a gentle nudge, he padded forwards. "Father," he said bowing his head, just as he'd done to his father, "it's good to see you."

"And you, my son," Loren replied. He placed his hand atop Tion's head, he had risen to his navel, he'd not been at his waist when he left. "You've grown."

Tion smiled. "I know," he replied. "Soon I will be as tall as you, Uncle Kevan says."

Loren's mouth tightened. "Maybe not for a while yet," he commented, "but Uncle Kevan says that you have been improving your swordsmanship," he said.

Tion nodded eagerly, "and Ser Addam says my lance is better than ever."

Loren laughed, "I look forward to seeing it." If Ser Addam was his tutor in arms, his son was in good hands. _They should have been mine._

At that point, Lady Alysanne approached. "Come now children," she said, "I need a few words with your father, go and prepare to go back to the Rock." They left obediently, Lelia leading the way for the others, though they all glanced back several times. "My lord husband," she said, curtsying.

"My Lady," he replied, bowing, "what is the matter?"

"It's about the Golden Tooth," she replied.

Loren raised an eyebrow, "your uncle's seat?"

She nodded, "his third wife has died in the birthing bed, their child stillborn."

Loren tried to think back, it had been too long since he was here. Then he remembered. "So you are once more the heir to the Golden Tooth." How stupid of him. That was why his father had arranged the marriage after all.

She nodded once more and then approached far closer than was proper, placing her hand on his chest softly. "My lord," she whispered into his ear, "your father intends to send me to the Tooth, now that you're back."

Loren kissed his wife lightly. "I will not let that happen." His father will not take his wife from him. She was his! "Come, let us go back... home." The word stuck in his throat like a dry biscuit. He needed a drink.

* * *

Despite the years he could still trace his way through the Rock, and by the time he made it to his chambers he was feeling more at home than he had when he first arrived. His father had gone to his chambers, at the top of the castle. It had always been a trek to reach him, but his Lord father would observe the lands he ruled, and those who wished to see him would make the journey or it wouldn't be worth it. As it happened, Loren had no desire to see his father. By the time his possessions were stored in his room, it was dark. His armour was on it's stand by his bed, his sword on the wall, the jewels reflecting the light of the fire, glittering alluringly, his clothes in his wardrobe and everything else in it's proper place as well. But there was somewhere else to be tonight.

He slipped out of the room, locking the door behind him and slipping the key around his neck. The castle was silent as stone, no guardsmen walked the halls, and only the flickering lights of the torches kept him company as he softly walked along the corridors, tracing his fingers along stone and engraving. Then he found the door and tried the handle. It turned easily and he pushed it open.

His wife was before her vanity with her handmaiden behind her, her dress and make up gone, in it's place a soft white night gown. They both turned to him. "My Lord," she said, getting to her feet.

He nodded at her. "Wife," he looked at her handmaiden. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to have some time with my wife."

The handmaiden, a new one he didn't recognise, probably one of his cousins going by the hair, looked at Aly. His wife looked at him. "Will you be leaving this night, my lord?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Then please leave us," she said calmly to her handmaiden who bowed to them both and left the room.

He stepped up to her and brushed a lock of hair from her face. "You look well."

"I am, considering," she replied. "Though it was difficult with you gone for so long."

"You know why I left," he replied, sitting down on the bed.

She joined him, placing a hand tentatively on his thigh. "I remember," she replied in a soft whisper. "You couldn't breathe here, not with your father everywhere. But they didn't, my lord. Tion, Joanna, Myrielle, Lelia, none of them knew why you decided to leave without them. You know we had to hold Lelia back to prevent her from trying to swim after your ship?"

"Where I was going," he said. "It was no place for children."

"There were other places to go," she insisted, her nails digging into his leg. He took her wrist tightly to get her to slacken her grip. "Your father's shadow doesn't cover all of Westeros."

He looked into her pained eyes. "That's where you're wrong, wife," he said. "I was still the son of Tywin Lannister. Where I went... I didn't completely escape him, but at least I wasn't made by it. I wasn't that other son of Tywin Lannister. I was me, and I made myself there."

"You don't... plan to return do you?"

He shook his head. "It's too late for that now. I'm back, and it seems I'm here to stay."

"They'll be glad to hear it," she told him.

"And what about you? Are you glad that I'm back?"

"I am," she replied at once, not as dutifully as before, but with a hint of relief. "Without you... I feared being expelled from the Rock."

"That won't happen," he told her, standing up and pulling her to her feet.

"My l-" He pressed his lips to hers, running his hands along her shoulder to make her nightgown slide off her shoulder. It slithered to the floor, exposing his wife's body to him. He undid his belt and pulled his clothes off before pushing her to the bed.

He crawled up her body, lifting her legs around his body. "Don't worry about my father. Don't even think of him, not here, not with me."

* * *

It had been too long since he had woken up with a woman's body in his arms. He pulled her closer to him, the soft warm a gentle caress on his soldier's body. He pressed his face between her shoulder blades, pressing kisses to the soft skin, feeling her hair tickling his features. He felt something swirling over his fingers and was confused, before he realised his wife was tracing her fingers over his hand. She always used to wake up before him whenever he came to her bed, he remembered, but unless there was a need, she never woke him, leaving him to stay in the land of dreams, free of the shadow of his father.

"Is it time," he murmured into her back.

Her caresses stopped and she instead patted his arm gently. "It is getting late to be in bed, my lord," she told him in a whisper. "But if you wish to stay..."

He did. Here with his lady wife, the comfort and heat of her body in his arms. But he couldn't put off meeting father forever, and the longer he did the worse the meeting was likely to be. "I do," he said, pushing himself onto his elbow and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "But first, I would break my fast with you, and the children."

The children were called to them for a light breakfast, taken in their solar. Lelia was the first to arrive, her hair done and in a neat blue and silver dress. She smiled widely, hurrying over and hugging him tightly. He wrapped his arm around her middle. "Good morning, little one," he said.

"I"m not so little any more, father," she replied, mockingly wounded.

He raised an eyebrow and got to his feet. Lelia didn't even reach his midriff. "Truly?" He asked her, looking around. "Then why can't I see you?"

"Father!"

He chuckled and sat back down. "You still have some growing to do, Lelia," he confirmed. "But I will admit, you are taller than when I left, and more beautiful too. One day, my sister will pass the crown of most beautiful woman in Westeros to you."

She giggled. "Thank you, father." She sat down beside him, shuffling her chair a little closer and resting her head on his shoulder.

"So," he asked his eldest child as they waited patiently for the others to arrive. "Are you still swimming like you used to?"

She smiled sheepishly, and nodded. "Despite being told repeatedly not to," Aly chastised her.

He nodded. "Are you getting better at it?"

"I am," she replied proudly. "Grandfather doesn't like it. He once sent me into a lake to swim for a whole day. He had a boat following me to pick me up, but I didn't need it. I kept swimming for hours. When they finally pulled me out I was wrinkly as old Lilly Lace!"

His eyebrow shot into his head. "Is that old windbag still alive?"

"My Lord!" Aly chastised him now, but Lelia laughed. "She told us all about you as a child."

"She was wrinkly then as well," he muttered, not wanting to know what stories she'd made up about him, his childhood was far too dull to recount to children. "And what did grandfather think when you finally got pulled out of the lake?"

"He was not happy with me." He put his arm around his daughter and squeezed her shoulder tightly.

"You shouldn't encourage her my lord," Aly reminded him in a similar tone to the one he'd used on her.

He kissed the top of Lelia's head. "My Lady I left for three years unannounced and without telling any of my children. I can hardly come back here and chastise them compared to that."

Myrielle and Joanna came in next, hair done just as Lelia's was, but their dresses were red and gold, ever the Lannister colours. Lelia was growing into a woman, you could see it, but Myrielle and Joanna still had the look of children about them. They looked so similar it was disturbing, almost like Jaime and Cersei had, though none of their arrogance. Two things could truly tell them apart, Myrielle was ever so slightly taller, and Joanna's eyes were more than green, like his own father, they were flecked with gold. But none of the coldness of his father was there, only purity and innocence and he would be damned before he let his father take that away. They curtsied dutifully. He smiled back. "Come, children, sit," he said, indicating the seats opposite. They slid into them, Myrielle averting her eyes. "Is something wrong, Miri?"

"N-no," she sniffed. She was clearly still emotional, ever the child. He reached over and took her thin, pale hand in his own. "I'm here now," he said gently, smiling at her. "You don't need to cry anymore."

She looked at him with wet eyes that threatened to spill diamonds down her alabaster cheeks, and nodded. "I'm sorry father," she said. Her fingers were twitching, eager to be doing something, eating perhaps, they only waited on one more.

He entered at that moment. The little boy Tion was in Red and Blue, a quartered tunic of the base colours of Lefford and Lannister. He bowed. "Mother, Father, sisters." His child's legs carried him around to the other side of him, Aly's left hand side and the furthest seat from him at the table.

He would have to spend time with the boy, get to know him again. He could hardly be surprised that Tion was avoiding him, he'd barely had the time to know him before he'd left. He likely hadn't remembered him well. "Well then, shall we eat?"

They tucked into the breakfast of ham and eggs, with some bread to go with it and some porridge to start, with a bowl of grapes in the middle for them to pick at. Miri's fingers twitched with the cutlery whenever she wasn't using it on her food. "Myrielle," her mother said. "You're twitching your fingers again, it's unseemly at the breakfast table."

She nearly dropped the fork she was holding and looked at her hand, she clearly hadn't been aware. "Forgive me, mother," she replied with a bow, her lip trembling. It's just... I've been working on an embroidery lately and..."

"And you can get back to it when we are finished."

"You're doing an embroidery?" He asked her.

She nodded. "Yes, father, of... of..." She clearly didn't want to say.

"It's okay," he said, hurriedly. "I look forward to the surprise of seeing it."

She nodded, relieved, as they switched to other topics of conversation.

As Tion was telling them of his first hit on the quintain, the door opened and his uncle entered. "Nephew," he said, looking at him. "Your father wants to see you."

He slowly slid the spoon of porridge out of his mouth. "Uncle," he said slowly, sweetly. "You may not have noticed, but I am in the middle of eating."

"And you were meant to go to Lord Tywin last night, yet you didn't," his uncle replied in the usual scornful tone he had come to expect from his father's ventriloquist puppet.

He put the spoon back in the bowl. "Can it not wait a little?" Kevan shook his head.

He bit back a retort that should be kept from the ears of children. "Very well," he said. "I will go to him." He wiped his mouth and stood up.

"And your children are also to-"

White hot anger burned in him as he interrupted his uncle. "Finish their breakfast," he said flatly and firmly. He turned to his children. "A good breakfast is everything. I found in the east that I could last a whole day on a good breakfast, it's a good habit. Finish up here, when you're mother says you can go, you may go," he told them firmly."

Aly bowed her head. "Of course, my lord."

He plucked a grape from the bowl and popped it in his mouth. "Shall we, uncle?"

He stared into Kevan's eyes, daring him to try and order his children differently. "Of course," he said.

He closed the door behind them as they left his children in the solar. Kevan led him down a familiar path to the Western Tower, the tallest tower in the Rock which led up to where father spent his time. Many of the servants whispered as they passed, but he paid them no heed. Instead casting his gaze around the fortress that had been his home. The corridors were hard and strong, flat as a shield and hung with thick tapestries and ornaments. They passed windows which looked out over the sea, no arrow slits here, the castle was too high up for an arrow to be accurately used against a fleet in the harbour, but further down there were many machicolations next to barracks in which there were rack after rack of crossbows and arrows, ready to repel an invading fleet.

"You lied to me," he said to Kevan, looking at him as they slipped through the Golden Hall, where many of the greatest treasures of the Lannisters were on display. "You told me father didn't let them see my letters."

"I said no such thing," Kevan pointed out calmly. "I simply showed you the letters, and you assumed they had never been opened. One look at the seals would have told you otherwise. You let your anger towards your father blind you to that. You assumed the worst of him."

He dug his nails into his palm so hard he drew blood. "Of course I did." He replied through gritted teeth. He'd learnt long ago to suspect the worst of Lord Tywin. It was the best way of avoiding surprise. Of course he'd been the fool though. He was like a dog, one simple tune and he'd come barking back home. _Damn you father._

At the base of the tower were two men at arms, lions sewn on their breasts and swords at their hips. They eyed him warily, but seeing that he was with Kevan, they let him pass. "Uncle," he said, turning to Kevan. "I'm sure father has other responsibilities for you, I'm sure I can manage a staircase alone."

Kevan paused, looking at him like he was trying to see if Loren meant to run off as soon as he was gone. _How petty and childish does he think I am?_ Not totally, it seemed, for he let Loren go with a nod and a good day. Good, he didn't want to look at the man who had lied about his children to get him to come home.

Loren turned and made the ascent. The lions hung at regular intervals, whenever one snapped past your head as you ascended the spiral staircase there was another in perfect view and a third coming down the spiral at you. The lions stood rampant and tall as the cloth hung flaccid and feeble. _The show of being a lion, but if my father and a lion were put into the same room, I'd bet my lordship that the lion wins. After all, if father survives, he would hardly let me inherit anyway._ The door at the top was strong oak banded with iron. He closed his eye, raised his fist and hammered on the door four times.

"Enter."

He turned the handle and entered.

"Hello, father, you called for me?"


	12. Book 1 Lyonel III

Lyonel was glad to see the shape of Dragonstone emerging from summer sea mists. The journey across the Narrow Sea had been slow and rough, with several storms delaying them from returning home in as quick a time as Lyonel would have liked. Daenerys had suffered as well, she was clearly used to travel on the roads, but not by sea, she spent more time than he would have preferred up on the deck emptying what little food she ate over the railings. She had not taken his tales of her father well, and she was still in denial over how her father could possibly have been as evil as he was. She would accept it or not, Lyonel knew, it didn't matter to him, he was simply delivering her to his father, he didn't know for what purpose, but he did not need to, all that mattered was delivering her, and that no-one knew he had been the one to take her, apart from those on the ship.

His uncle Rolland came up beside him and rested his arms on the railings next to him. "Your father has been busy," he noted, indicating the harbour, which was becoming more and more visible through the mist. Rolland was right, there were dozens more ships gathered in the harbour, emerging from the mist like dead leviathans, floating aimlessly, sails rolled up and the decks empty, apart from the occasional ghostly figure on the decks that followed them intently. Their figureheads; griffins, naked women, warriors, dragons and other exotics, a sphinx in the motion of charging carved from silver decorated a large trading vessel to the left while a rugged warship with two hundred oars and an iron ram floated to the right.

There were warships, trading vessels, shapes of ships Lyonel recognised as those favoured by pirates. He saw embroidered flags of Lys, Gulltown, Volantis and Myr hanging flaccid from the tops of masts, all dwarfed by the crowned stag of Baratheon, which flew from most vessels there. _That could be dangerous father, claiming ships for your own that way._ Buthe retained that prerogative as Master of Ships of the Seven Kingdoms, and his father always had a reason for what he did. It was not Lyonel's place to question.

"He has," Lyonel commented, looking over the vessels. Now that they were closer he could see things more clearly. On the nearest ships he saw guardsmen and sailors from Dragonstone swarming over the decks, many trade ships seemed to be being converted into warships, which perplexed Lyonel. Such actions were far from unheard of, in times of war, but there was no war going on, unless something had changed since he had been gone. His father would know and would surely tell him when he arrived. "Bring the Targaryen up on deck," he said, "her hair must be covered, but she should see her birthplace from outside before the inside."

Rolland nodded and pushed off the rails to return to the lower decks and retrieve Daenerys. Alone once more, Lyonel's thoughts turned to his sister. Shireen had been forced to accompany the King to the North, and he feared for her, for in most journeys to other houses, they went together, as one. In the few archery contests they attended, Shireen rarely competed, but they were always there together. Though when she did compete he beat her without fail. It was not her fault, but she had difficulty fitting the training into her schedule, alongside her womanly pursuits, but Lyonel trained, without fail, every single day. He had been several months, maybe even a year, he could not fully remember, faster than her in surpassing their mother to gain their Dragonbone bows back, but he had waited until she had done so as well. His hand went to his ruined right shoulder, black and hard as the Dragonglass beneath Dragonstone. He did not know how he and his sister had contracted the near fatal disease, but they were the only ones on Dragonstone to do so. Their mother had spent most of every day in prayer, and fasted nearly as much as Baelor the Blessed had. But, after seven days of praying and eating barely anything, the gods had heard her prayers, and the infection had ceased it's course.

Lyonel had always felt guilty, irrationally, he knew, but he suspected that he may have been the one to pass the disease to his sister, for he had been told that he had held her left arm tightly, and her infection had only appeared after his own. Shireen held nothing against him though, and she was still alive. She had often joked that, thanks to Greyscale, she needed no bracer when she fired her arrows, which was true enough, but he would rather his sister not bear the marks of such a disease.

"Is this it?" He heard a soft voice ask, and he turned to see a brown haired girl he did not recognise.

"Who are you?" He demanded, his hand drifting towards his knife.

"It is her, nephew," Rolland said, coming up behind her. "Saerra, the woman we brought back from Pentos, dyed it to hide her."

Lyonel then noticed the violet eyes, and realised it was Daenerys Targaryen. "I see," he said, relaxing his arm. "Is this what?" He asked her.

"Where I was born?"

Lyonel nodded. "It is," he said simply. "Dragonstone, the birthplace of Aegon the Conqueror, your birthplace and my own."

She gripped the rails tightly. "It's so… dark," she said.

Lyonel nodded once more. "It is."

"Will we be disembarking soon?" She asked timidly.

He pointed to the next available jetty, then turned and called to Maric. "Land here, half sail!" The main sails were wound up, allowing for greater manoeuvrability, and less speed, more important when trying to anchor a ship. When their speed had cut sufficiently, Lyonel called out. "Cut sail!" and the last sails were rapidly folded up. When finally they were at a halt, Lyonel nodded over to the anchormen, who hefted the iron device over the edge of the ship and dropped it into the bay.

He turned to Daenerys Targaryen. "Are you ready to see the place of your birth?"

She nodded.

The two of them, together with Rolland, Aerion, Saerra and her children, were aboard the first rowing boat making it"s way to the shore of Dragonstone, landing at a fishing village a short distance from the fortress for which the island was named. On Dragonstone there were many such villages, several of whom boasted peasants with Valyrian features, Dragonseeds and their descendants, from when the Targaryens had practiced the tradition of the First Night, many of them long after Jaehaerys the Conciliator had outlawed the act. Another way the Targaryens considered themselves above the law. They had to be removed, and Daenerys would come to terms with that or not. It didn't concern him.

Between the village and the fortress was a small camp that had not been there when Lyonel had left the island for Pentos. There were not a hundred men in the camp, and several of them were in garb that was not common in the Seven Kingdoms, sellswords, if he was to guess, based on their attire and weapons. More were dressed in boiled leather and light mail, drilling with spears, pikes and axes. He led Daenerys by the hand through the camp, not wanting her to feel too threatened and uncomfortable and, more importantly, he did not want to lose her. If she went running off then he was a failure.

They made their way up a steep path to the castle, It was rough stone but had been carved smooth as the Valyrians of old had in their great empire in the east with their roads and sphinxes and carved stone dragons. Where the path rose too steeply to continue steps had been hewn into it until it levelled out again. He glanced up, knowing that there were plenty of overhangs were a force of archers could rain damage and death on this path, wide enough for no more than four men abreast to traverse. Dragonstone was never meant to house an army, as some fortresses were, but to defend against it. A dragon would have been the ultimate defence, raining fire into the pass, but two hundred men could serve just as well, archers above, men at arms on the path, locked shields, a host could be cut to bloody ribbons before it even reached the fortress and had to contend with the walls and defences there.

They passed two sturdy watchtowers built into the stone to protect watchers from the rain and storms that came in from the sea. The men on the towers were not lazy and moved to inspect him, but stopped when they saw who he was and let him pass to the gate without challenge, which swung open on his approach.

"Lord Lyonel!" Lyonel cracked a small smile at the sound of the Master-at-Arms, who had taught him in the use of the sword and his preferred weapon of hand to hand combat, the mace. Ser Gerold Pyle, a tall gruff man with a close trimmed brown beard but no hair on the top of his head at all. It seemed that he had been I the process of training some men, for a force of about twenty were currently sparring together in one corner of the courtyard. "You have been gone a while. Your father has been impatient for your return."

"I understand it," he replied, "but we were delayed by storms on our way back from Pentos."

"Well," Gerold said, looking back to his men. "I'd best not keep these layabouts still too long, like as not they'll slice their own toes off. Your father spends most of his time in the chamber of the painted chamber, with luck your mother might be there too, she has been spending more time there than usual," he explained, which surprised Lyonel. His mother much preferred the environment of Aegon"s Garden, and his parents had never been close, close enough to father three children; his older brother, Orys, had died in infancy before he was born, but other than that, they were more acquaintances than lovers. Lyonel knew they had never shared a bedchamber on a more permanent basis than their father's visits there, and his mother had rarely gone to King's Landing with their father, instead remaining behind. It was not that their relationship was especially cold, but there were closer parents in the world. In their own infancy, he and Shireen had suffered from nightmares like any child, and often snuck of to their mother's bedchamber to curl up with her. There had been little risk of their father coming and finding out even when he was at the castle.

"Come," Lyonel said to Daenerys, not wanting to use her name, in case his father did not want it well known that he had brought, thanks to him the _only_ remaining Targaryen back to the Seven Kingdoms. He only hoped his father did not punish him for killing Viserys Targaryen on the docks of Pentos.

He led Daenerys up through spiralling staircases, taking her soft and cold hand to make sure that she did not dawdle to wander at the dragonesque design features of the fortress of her ancestors. He pushed open the door to the chamber of the painted table, to see that Gerold had indeed been right, his mother and father were both there. His father's black hair and blue eyes that he had inherited from him, and the sharp, eagle like features he had inherited from his mother turned to him as he stepped through the doorway.

"Lyonel," his mother gasped, smiling, rushing over to him and embracing him tightly. "You are safe."

"Safe and well mother," he replied. He and Shireen had been blessed with their mother's sharp features, but she looked more like a hawk than either of them, her brown hair in a widow's peak like an eagle"s hood before falling to her back in a single long tail, and her eyes as sharp as any arrow. There was little that was missed by them.

He turned to his father. "I have brought who you sent me for father."

His father, stern and hard as always, got up and made his own way over to them. Daenerys tried to hide behind him, but Lyonel pushed her to the front. Stannis Baratheon seized her face in one hand, looking into her eyes. He released her chin and grabbed a lock of her hair between thumb and forefinger, rubbing roughly. "Dye?" He asked and Lyonel nodded. His father turned back to Daenerys Targaryen. "Welcome home Daenerys Targaryen," he said and then turned to his wife. "Take her to her chambers, wife, remember, your maids only."

She nodded and took Daenerys by the hand. He smiled at her, hopefully encouragingly, but if not, his mother would assuage her fears before long, he was sure. "The rest of you out," his father continued. "I need to speak to my son, alone." Lyonel turned to Rolland and looked to Saerra. Rolland nodded in understanding, taking them out of the room. Lyonel knew Rolland would set them in here. He turned back to his father. "You did well," his father told him, filling him with pride. "She will prove most useful in the near future."

"How?" Lyonel asked. He knew his father would explain in time, but he would like to know why he had risked his own neck. "I fail to see how one princess from a failed dynasty can be useful to anyone.

"In time I will reveal how," his father explained simply, "but I cannot risk you revealing anything at the moment, so I cannot tell you anything." The lack of trust felt like a blade of ice piercing Lyonel's heart after it had been warmed by his previous comment. His father had never been one to mince words, but that did not mean they never hurt.

But he knew it was not his place to question his father when it came to grand strategies. So instead he replied, "as you say father."

"Your sister should be back in King's Landing before long," his father continued. Lyonel felt a smile cross his face. "You shall be going to meet her in the city." The smile vanished, replaced by a frown.

"Why?" He asked.

He heard his father grind his teeth. "They are throwing another tourney, this one to celebrate Lord Eddard Stark"s appointment as Hand of the King. There shall be an archery contest as part of it."

"But father," Lyonel interrupted him. "There is surely more for me to do here, one archery contest can be missed, I saw the ships, and it is my place to assist you."

"And in attending you will be assisting me," his father replied, looking at him sternly. "You are known for your archery, if you do not attend, people will talk, they will no doubt be talking about my withdrawal already."

Lyonel nodded. "It was sudden, and people will ask about the ships before long. If not already."

His father looked strongly at him. "I will not give the Lannisters more reason to grow suspicious of me, not yet."

"The Lannisters?" Lyonel asked, but his father did not react, so he did not push the issue.

"Go to the capital, win the archery, for I suspect that we will need all the gold we can get before long," his father commanded. "And when there, people will no doubt ask you about me, and what I am doing, pass off a suitable story that throws their attention, you were always better at that than I."

Lyonel nodded, struggling not to smile, his more glib tongue than his father had gotten him into trouble with Lord Stannis more than once. "I shall tell them that you are sour about Lord Eddard being appointed Hand of the King , and not yourself," he said, and he heard his father grind his teeth again, making him suspect that he would be telling a truth to disguise a lie, rather than another lie. But it was warranted, his father had earned that seat from his uncle, just as he had earned Storm's End after the Rebellion. But once more he had been denied.

"That will do," his father finally replied, curtly. "Now go to your mother, spend some time with her, and the Targaryen as well, keep an eye on her whilst you are here."

Lyonel nodded and left the chamber of the Painted Table, with his father seated at the large throne positioned in the position of Dragonstone, looking over the map, brooding, as Aegon the Conqueror had three hundred years previously.

He made his way to Aegon's garden, sitting down on a bench that was, like most things about the castle, shaped with dragon motifs. He had missed the smell of pine that was ever present in the air when he was at sea, although he was not unfond of the sea air either. He had many memories running around the garden with Shireen in his youth, their uncle watching over them when he was not fulfilling his duties as Castellan whilst their father was at King's Landing. He smiled as he remembered those days of happiness, even with their greyscale. "Lyonel," he turned to look at his mother, who had entered the garden, her dress of light green and white flowed about her like the air around an eagle's wing.

He got up and hugged her. "Mother," he whispered back, "how are you?"

"Better for your return," she replied, "I feared the worst when I heard of Pentos, worse still when I heard of the Storms."

"Pentos?" Lyonel asked, she was not supposed to know about that.

She nodded and looked at him. "Your father only told me of where you were going when you were gone, I had complete faith that you would succeed, but I feared you would not have left fast enough."

"Fast enough?" He asked.

Her thin eyebrows raised. "Have you not heard?" She asked. He shook his head. "News from sailors who arrived before you, the Dothraki, angry at their disrupted wedding, sacked the city. Thousands were killed and thousands more taken into slavery. The Prince and the Magisters were torn apart by horses and children were trampled under their hooves."

Lyonel took a breath. "It will be some time before that city recovers to anything like what it was, and it was one of the weakest of the Free Cities."

"Matters in the east do not concern us for now," Lyonel replied softly. "Unless my uncle decides it would be a good excuse for war."

"Or they learn that you are responsible," she added. Sighing, she turned around, "nothing can be done about it now, come, walk with me." Lyonel caught up to her as they made their way down dark corridors, lit only by torches which glowed faintly from the light of torches from brackets in the wall.

"Do you know why father had me do it?" He asked her.

His mother laughed. "I am no more your father's confidant than he is mine," she replied. "He had his reasons I am sure, and I have my suspicions, as I always do."

"What suspicions?" He asked as they found their way to a balcony, looking towards King's Landing.

She sighed and looked around, which Lyonel found odd, surely she could trust the people here, she had known them as long as she had been at Dragonstone, which was only a few years less than them. His father had replaced the entire Targaryen household with men of his own choosing when he was awarded the seat. "Your father ordered you to leave as soon as he arrived back from King's Landing, he… came to my chambers that night."

Lyonel grimaced slightly, he did not want that image in his head, but his mother had a point he was sure, she always did. "Normally it is… dutiful, he comes hoping to conceive." Now Lyonel bit his lip, the life of his parents in the bedchamber was not what he wanted to hear about. "But this time… he was tense, troubled, he came seeking some form of comfort, I could tell, so I gave it to him, as best I could. Something happened in King's Landing, he saw something, or learned something troubling to him."

"Something about her?" Lyonel asked. "You think he brought her hear because something was happening in King's Landing?"

His mother looked at him. "Ever since he returned he has been more critical than usual of the Lannisters, the Kingslayer and the queen in particular. I believe he is plotting against them. As well as your father is able to plot."

"How will Daenerys Targaryen come into this plot?" Lyonel asked. "If he seeks to gain our uncle in the struggle against them, then he should deliver her head to him, or had me bring the body of the Targaryen prince. Keeping her hidden hardly helps us in that regard."

"I do not know," his mother replied. "Just be careful, Lyonel. You're father is sending you to the capital, that hole full of rats who would tear you apart for amusement. Be strong and keep you're wits about you. And come home safely with your sister."

He nodded. "I'll bring Shireen home safe and sound, mother," he said fiercely. "I will never let _anything_ happen to her."


	13. Book 1 Tristan IV

His body was lean, furred and powerful. He could bound through the undergrowth, unencumbered by the branches and brambles that held back his master and his master's friend. He could sense his master's urgency, and knew it as well, his litter-mate was gone and it was up to him to find her. He could feel her, he kept leading his master in the direction of her fear, her loneliness drawing him to her like man to fire and home. But his master did not trust him, continuing to look for the trails of man, paw prints in the dried mud or broken brambles.

Then he heard her cry, piercing his sharp ears like his fangs would through the hide of lesser beasts, howling up at the darkened sky, calling for the shining orb to re-appear. He followed the sound, tearing into the nearest bushes so fast that a heavy branch broke on his flank, but it mattered not, his litter-mate was in need of aid, and he would find her.

He burst through the undergrowth, the lesser beasts scurrying out of his way. He noted the scents of prey; of hart and stag and man, but ignored them. The scent of family, of wolf, that was the greatest of them all.

But then, his ears pricked. He heard hooves of the beasts humans rode, the flesh of stallion left a scent that he picked up with ease. He slowed to a pace, these ones would not be friends, few humans were and his master was asleep.

He made himself silent like the birds that flew at night, looking for prey but fleeing when they saw him. Two horses emerged from within eyesight, on a road of mud. In the darkness, he could still recognise what they were wearing. Anger rose within him, his fangs extended and his muscles tensed. He saw lions, lions of cloth and metal, lions of blood and meat. Lions were threats to his master, and that made them prey.

He heard them speak. "We should've stayed with the column," one of them muttered. He still had difficulty distinguishing the voices of man. But this one seemed… displeased, with the current situation.

"You 'erd the Queen," the other lion said, from atop his horse he was powerful but he could feel the fear of the beasts they rode. Those two were smart, they knew he was there, even if the pink men and metal lions did not. "One hundred dragons for the wolf pelt, that's enough to live well forever."

Anger surged within him and he leapt out of the undergrowth, roaring at the horses of the men, who raised themselves high, the lions of cloth falling into the dirt to be trampled, those of metal dropping to the ground with delicious cries of pain. He charged, savaging the first lion, targeting the weak pink flesh of it"s throat and ripping it out. The taste was vile, sour and burning, but the pleasure of the act was something else entirely.

The second lion was fumbling with his metal weapon, a clumsy fumble, if he were a wolf, then he would trip over the smallest of branches. He bounded forwards, his paws feeling the hard security of the earth as he leapt forward, clamping his jaws over the hand and yanking to the right. He heard the ripping of skin and the breaking of bone as he pulled the hand from the wrist and spat it onto the ground. Then he savaged the man until it stopped moving, leaving the remains where they fell.

The blood was still on his lips when he felt his litter-mate again and, leaving the dead lions where they fell, trampling over the fallen cloth ones as he did so, he sprang off into the bushes.

He found her not long afterwards, cowering in some undergrowth, though no life dared approach her. He came up to her slowly, nuzzling the ground to show that he meant no harm, and hopeful that she would recognise him. Her golden eyes turned to him slowly and looked at him with wonder. She had not expected to see him again, but he could feel her relief, her joy. So he got closer, licking gently at her face to clean some of the earthen muck from it. She should be a beast of pride, not hiding in the dirt. He would keep her safe, and his master would be pleased for finding her.

When dawn crested the horizon, Tristan awoke from his slumber, and his strange dream. He and Cley had pursued any trail of Nymeria they could find, chasing it further and further north. Soon they would be in the marshlands of the Neck, and any hope of finding Nymeria before she vanished into the Riverlands' woods would be lost to him, he would have no choice but to turn north, for Winterfell. He, Cley, Lady and Shield had not pitched a tent, sleeping under the skies every night. Lady was content now, though she had not been the first few days, with Shield having to fight her down in order to prevent her running back to her mistress, but now she was docile, accepting her fate of returning to Winterfell.

"Are you okay?" Cley asked him. His friend was saddling his horse already, tightening the straps. His mail shirt was on as well, underneath his leathers. Both had taken to wearing them, it made them more threatening on the road, though not as much as having two wolves would.

Tristan nodded, stretching as he got to his feet. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You thrashed around more than usual last night," Cley commented. "I just wondered."

"I appreciate it," Tristan replied, pulling his own mail shirt over his head, tightening his belt and pulling his leathers on over it. "But it was just a strange dream, nothing more."

Cley nodded, finishing up with his horse and tossing some meat they had saved from the last night to Shield and Lady. Tristan moved to his own horse, taking up the saddle and slinging it over the back of it, tightening the straps and running his fingers along the mane, stroking the muzzle softly, before putting the harness on and securing it. Then he felt a pulling on his leg, and looked down to see Shield there, tugging insistently. "What is it?" He asked, crouching down to Shield's height. There was blood on his muzzle and fangs, but he seemed insistent that they follow him.

"I think Shield's found something in the night," he said, looking at Cley.

"Then let's follow him." Cley had learned to trust Shield in this, just as Tristan had. He found them the best places to sleep, and even brought them fresh carcasses to eat when the sun got too low. They finished packing and mounted their horses, kicking them into action to follow Shield, whilst Lady trotted at the side of Tristan's horse. The course was erratic, cutting through undergrowth and low hanging branches, more than one of which scratched Tristan's face as he passed them. However, Shield did seem to be avoiding the tightest undergrowth, that Tristan would have to be down in the dirt to follow. Still, there were times when he was hit on the head by a low flying branch, or he had to dismount in order to get through some thick brambles, but progress was being made, and Tristan found himself praying that he found Nymeria before the sun dipped that evening.

Then Shield began to move through the undergrowth, undergrowth too tight for the horses to follow. "Cley, stay here with the horses," he said dismounting, undoing his sword belt wrapped over his shoulder, the handles would only get caught more, and taking it through by hand. He watched Shield pass by a broken branch and felt a pain jolt his side. He rubbed it, curious. He had seen the branch before, but could not tell where, and the slight pain below his ribs was familiar, he had felt it before. Shaking his head, he scrambled on all fours after his loyal wolf, eventually coming to a clearing. He heard a second scrabbling in the dirt and looked up. He had found her. Nymeria next to Shield, nuzzling him with her muzzle. When Tristan emerged and got to his feet, Lady rushed over to join them, her having followed him since dismounting. The three wolves enjoyed each other's company and Tristan allowed himself some time to stand back and enjoy it. But he didn't want to leave Cley alone for long, so whistled to them.

Shield and Lady came bounding over at once, but Nymeria was more sceptical. "Nymeria," he said, softly, dropping to one knee. "I will not hurt you, your mistress sent me to take you home." He did not know what made him say it, but it felt right, so he did. "Arya may not be here, but you remember me," he said. "You remember Shield." Shield stared at Nymeria as intently as Tristan did, maybe the wolves were communicating, he did not know. "Come back to Winterfell," he said, "with me, we'll find a way to get you to Arya again, but for now, come back, be with your littermates at Winterfell."

Nymeria approached him, and he did not move away, as was his instinct. Direwolves are creatures of strength, and to show weakness would not make one follow him, and with three behind him, he could expect only trouble. His mother had often told him the trouble of having twin boys when they were young. He may never have been very good with children, outside his family at least, but he had the Direwolves in hand, when he told them to come with him back to the horses they did so without complaint.

"So," Cley asked as they approached the end of the stinking marshland of the Neck. "Are you disappointed in not participating in the melee?"

Tristan grimaced, "not truly," he said simply.

Cley raised an eyebrow. "You aren't?"

Tristan shook his head. "From what it sounds like, it wasn't going to be a proper melee," he told Cley, "it sounds like it's just going to be a brawl."

"Brawl?" Cley asked.

He nodded. "Yes, just a few dozen fighters put into a field to fight, as they do in the south too much."

"You're right," Cley said, sniffing the pungent air. "That is no melee."

"Exactly," Tristan complained. "With all their southern fancifulness and chivalry they have forgotten how to hold a proper melee." He shook his head. Shield seemed, for some reason, to share in his disappointment. "A melee should be teams of fighters with dulled weapons fighting together in mock battle situations. That is the purpose of a melee, training for a real battle."

"Southerners," Cley shook his head despondently. "What was the melee at Highgarden like?" He asked, "the one you won."

"Like a brawl," he replied simply. "But there were advantages to that," he said, the memories of blood from Highgarden clear in his mind.

"Like what?" Cley asked.

"No holding back," he replied simply, grinning now. "I captured four knights, including Lord Cuy, who were willing to pay a pretty price for all their shiny armour and big horses."

Cley laughed. "Such pride in their colours," he replied. "They forget what matters sometimes."

Tristan nodded. "That they do Cley." They rode on in silence for a while, the only sounds being the panting of the Direwolves and the strikes of their horses" hooves on the ground. However, soon other noises reached their ears.

"We must be nearing Moat Cailin," Cley commented.

Tristan nodded. "That we must," he replied. Sure enough, soon the first towers and walls were within view, and the sounds of the workmen and their tools were all too distinguishable. "Do you think they have somewhere for us tonight?" He asked Cley. In reply, Cley simply looked at the three Direwolves at their feet. Tristan laughed.

"Who goes there!" A voice called from a window in the gatehouse tower. There was no gate yet, but there would be before long, Tristan did not doubt, progress on the ancient keep was going well. For now, there were wooden barricades, easily movable, in place in front of the archway where the gate would be.

"Shall I answer," Tristan called up. "Or should my direwolves?"

"Lord Tristan?" The man called back.

"Well done," he replied, smiling. "May we enter the North?"

"Clear the barricades!" The man called down and soon enough the wooden barricades were dragged to the side and the guardsmen were bowing their heads as he and Cley entered Moat Cailin.

The work on the castle was extensive, there were hundreds of men working on the bricks of the walls and their wives and children were also nearby, cleaning things or doing other chores or housework. Most were able to stop to bow to him briefly though, as they made their way through to the partially constructed stables. Since stables could be put up swiftly, they had erected half of the full size one that were planned, mainly for travelling lords and nobles. Tristan and Cley swiftly tied their horses up and gathered their saddlepacks, stepping back outside.

The castle was going to be large, though not as large as it had been in times of legend. The Keep, more than half finished now, was at the back, with most of the windows on it from the bedchambers looking out over the North. The courtyard was large and expansive, and Tristan could imagine one side being set aside for the guards to train in, or sons, once whoever his father planned on naming Lord of Moat Cailin was landed there. The walls were large and strong, well buttressed and mostly done. The wall facing north was finished and temporary Stark banners flew from the ramparts. On the east and west they were adding the final touches, but on the south they had to fit a double gatehouse, which was taking time. Although the gatehouse to the north was already done, and was of the same design. Tristan knew they were designed so that should someone breach the first gate, they could be picked off by archers and masonry dropped from murder holes with ease. There were other buildings scattered around that Tristan assumed would become the armoury, library, bell towers, maybe a sept, a smithy and what looked like a glass garden on the edge of the recently planted godswood. Though the trees were young, Tristan knew they would grow fast, with the Weirwood tree in the middle of the two acre forest being the center of it and sentinels, ironwoods, oaks and pines would be growing thick and fast around them.

"My Lord," it was Ser Cregan Manderly, a distant cousin of the current lord Wyman and the man that Tristan"s father had set to oversee the rebuilding of Moat Cailin. "How good to see you again."

"Likewise, Ser Cregan," Tristan replied, grinning.

"I thought you were competing in a tourney in the south?" He commented.

Tristan felt his face darken, and was pleased that Cley answered for him. "There was an altercation on the road with the Lannisters. We returned to ease some of the tensions."

"I see," Cregan said, not pushing further for which Tristan was grateful. "Well, shall we get you up to the same rooms as last time?"

"We can take ourselves, Ser Cregan," Tristan said. "I'm sure you have plenty of work to do before the sun sets."

"Very well my lord," the knight replied, bowing and leaving them to head for the keep.

They made their way up to the bedchamber they had shared when coming down, with it's single large bed in the middle, and a fireplace, which they set up as soon as they got in. By the time they had gotten the wolves settled, and removed their riding clothes, it was dark outside. So Tristan and Cley got into the warm bed and were swiftly asleep.


	14. Book 1 Catelyn I

The winds of the North swept Catelyn's flowing auburn hair back as she and Ser Rodrik made their way down the Kingsroad. She had finally come to her senses about Bran, she could do nothing more to help him, not in Winterfell, only in King's Landing, discovering the name of those who would have opened her son's throat. _The Lannisters,_ she thought instantly. She had no proof, but she could not think of any other who might possibly profit from hurting Bran. If Robert had been less of a laughing man then he might have wished to punish Tristan for his humiliation of Prince Joffrey, but Ned assured her that Robert was not to blame, and she believed him. Whoever was responsible, she and Ser Rodrik would uncover the truth when they arrived in King's Landing from White Harbour.

But White Harbour was still some way away, even for two riders on the road, they were passing the land of the Hornwoods now and it would be another day before they entered fields that owed fealty to Lord Wyman Manderly. She passed the silent time by thinking of the wolves. She had not been sure of them at first, fangs and claws around her children were not what she wanted. But then Bran's unnamed Wolf had saved his life, and her own, and in that instant she loved them. She wondered absently whether or not Tristan would have found a name for his when she arrived in the capital. Hornwood lands bordered Bolton lands, and she remembered her heart nearly break the day that Tristan had left Winterfell to serve Lord Bolton for a year as recompense for the murder of Lord Roose"s bastard. She had only felt such anger towards her husband twice in her life. The first time was when he had refused to send Jon away, and treated him as a son, and the second was when he had proposed to Lord Bolton that Tristan spend a year at the Dreadfort.

Soon they would turn off the Kingsroad though, and she would be taking smaller, less well formed roads to White Harbour, where she hoped not to wait too long before finding a ship to take her to King's Landing. If the worst came however, she could always appeal to Lord Wyman, whose loyalty to the Starks would likely make him willing to grant her passage on a ship. Admittedly, she did not know how many ships Lord Wyman had on hand, but hopefully there would be one.

"My Lady," Rodrik said in a tone like he was giving a warning. "Riders to the east." She turned in the saddle and saw that there was a party of riders approaching from the east, south east would be closer to the truth. A single banner fluttered in the wind over their heads. The Moose of House Hornwood was recognisable before long. The party, made up of a dozen guardsmen and their commander, pulled up short before her. Ser Rodrik's hand brushed over the pommel of his sword, though Catelyn doubted he could take all of them even if he wanted to.

She had expected some kind of stern demand of their identity, but instead, when the commander spoke, it was with the voice of a youth, and one she recognised under the half helm. "Lady Stark?" He sounded shocked.

"Indeed Daryn," she said, smiling as the young man, one of her second son's closest friends, pulled off his half helm, and Rodrik and the guardsmen seemed to relax. "How are you?"

"Better than you could hope to be, my lady," he replied solemnly. He bowed his head in respect. His hair waved in the breeze like grass that had browned by lack of water, and she could still see some of the softness of youth in his face. "I am sorry about your son Bran." Her son's broken body flashed before her eyes as it so often did.

"Thank you," she replied sincerely, smiling to him. "I have nearly lost my son, and my sister has lost her husband, I am on my way to her now. That we might share in our grief."

Daryn nodded and bowed his head. "Then I wish you the speed of the gods on your journey my lady," he told her. As he was about to set off on his way however, she had another thought.

 _House Hornwood borders Bolton, and Daryn was always one of Tristan's closest friends._ "Daryn," she asked, and the sandy haired young man turned to her, an eyebrow raised. "Tristan spent eleven months serving in the Dreadfort, did you see him when he was there?"

Daryn nodded. "Indeed, I visited my friends there often," he told her.

She nodded and then asked him something she had wondered since Tristan returned. "Did something happen to Tristan there, he seemed… different, when he returned."

"Can anyone go to the Dreadfort and come back the same?" He asked in reply. "Now you say it though," he continued, no longer jesting. "He has gotten more… cold, since he squired for Lord Bolton."

She nodded, she had noticed as well. Not as quickly as Robb though. Robb had come straight to her when he had returned with Tristan. He was worried about him. He was certain that something had happened to his twin, something that had turned him dark and sour. She had not believed it at first, had not wanted to, but then she had come across him in the godswood, prior to the arrival of the king. The way he had spoken of the Lannister southerners, it had unnerved her, it was much like how her first intended, Brandon, would speak. She found it strange, Robb and Tristan, she had named them herself, Ned had been at war when they were born, so she had named them in the manner of the Riverlands, everyone in the Riverlands knew the stories of Red Robb Rivers, the best archer of his day. It also paid homage to her husband's fiercest and closest friend, and the victor of the Battle of the Trident. As for Tristan, there had been many named such in the lands watered by the Trident, both before and after the Andals swept across the land. She had not even been thinking, she hardly knew her husband at that point, he had left her with two babes to nurture and nurse and gone. Yet despite his being named in a southern manner, Tristan was the most northern of her children. He scorned southern tourneys, claiming them to be ostentatious and pretentious. He scorned the southerners themselves in general. But when he had returned, scorn was no longer there, it was not what she had seen when she looked in his eyes. His scorn had been replaced by an iron hatred, cold as the deepest northern winter, and if Tristan had not told Robb, then no one would know, and she would not try to press. Though the way things stood, that hatred, that cold, would soon be very useful to the Starks. She could not suppress a small smile at the thought of Tristan being unleashed upon their enemies, but it was gone just as quickly, she did not want any of her children of in war, not one, she wanted them to grow old, all of them. Her thoughts once more turned back to Bran, her Bran. "Thank you Daryn," she said, and the heir of Hornwood, nodding and bowing his head, put his spurs to his horse and he and the Hornwood party set off.

"We should be on our way too, my Lady," Ser Rodrik reminded her, bringing her out of her thoughts of her second son.

She nodded, and the two riders set off down the final stretch of the Kingsroad.

However, not two days later they were accosted by Tristan himself, Cley at his side and not one, but three Direwolves behind him. "Mother!" He gasped, in a tone most unlike him.

"Tristan," she replied, dismounting. Tristan did the same and rushed up to her, gathering her tightly in his arms and holding her close and, for a moment, her worries about him were gone. She pulled back. "What are you doing here?" She regretted it instantly, for a moment she had her son back; the boy who was using a stick as a sword before he could speak properly, the one who had no shame about his own talents or failings, the one who laughed as he became the best fighter she had seen, and he was gone again, the iron hatred had returned to his eyes.

"There was… trouble on the road," he said, simply, avoiding the question. "The Queen wanted the wolves dead, and I did not let her, I took them and fled before they could be harmed."

Catelyn was not surprised that Cersei Lannister wanted the Wolves gone, but dead, that was something else. "What happened?"

"Prince Joffrey happened," Tristan replied, hatred oozing from every syllable. "He was a coward, a liar and a worm."

"I understand," Catelyn said quickly, it was not good to have such anger inside yourself, and she did not want her son succumbing to that. "But there are other things you should know, all is not well at Winterfell."

"How so?" Tristan asked, his wolf growling.

She looked over at Cley. "This is a family matter Cley, if you would please."

Cley bowed his head at once. "Of course, Lady Stark," he said and trotted his horse a short distance away, so as not to overhear.

"We have determined that Bran did not fall from the tower," she said. "We think he was thrown from the window."

Her son breathed as though he was a dragon, ready to unleash his hellfire upon her. "Who thre him," he demanded of her.

"Calm yourself Tristan," she warned. "or you will hear no more from me."

Tristan could easily have refused to calm down and insist that Robb would tell him at Winterfell. Robb almost certainly would, but she could play on his impatient streaks as well as anyone. Perhaps better. Her son took several breaths and calmed down. "A common footpad snuck into Bran's room, not long after you had left with your father," she explained calmly. "Had Bran's wolf not interfered, both I and your brother would be dead," she raised her hands to show him her scarred palms. "He bore this blade," she said, retrieving the dagger, steel forged in ancient Valyria with a handle of Dragonbone. Tristan took it in his grip, spinning it effortlessly.

"No blade for a common assassin," he muttered, passing it back to her carefully.

"No," she agreed, tucking it away. Cley was not looking in their direction, but she did not want to chance him turning around and seeing it. "Whoever charged the footpad with opening your brother's throat clearly provided the weapon, and there are few who could own such a dagger."

"The Lannisters," Tristan breathed.

Catelyn shot him a stern look. "We cannot know that," she warned him, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Do not shout out accusations like that without first thinking of what they could mean. Or their consequences."

Her son looked mollified enough. "I head south now to your father," she explained softly. "I should overtake him by ship and be there before he is, I will show him the dagger, and we can uncover the identity of the man who owns it."

"And then?" Tristan asked her.

She wished she could give him more than she had to give. "Your father will present it to the king."

"The King is more the Queen's bitch than Shield is mine," Tristan commented.

 _Shield_ , she thought, looking at Tristan's wolf. _An apt name, I can only hope he lives up to it._ "When it comes to irrefutable proof, and on a matter as serious as the attempted murder of Bran, the King will listen to your father, he must," she told him.

"Do not be so sure of that," Tristan warned her. "But just to be safe, when you return, bring the knife with you, we cannot risk it disappearing."

"But your father may have need of it, it is the only proof we have."

"They'll say it was stolen, whoever it belongs too, we'll need more proof than the knife, return with it, and then we can always take it back when father has gathered what other proofs he can," he explained to her. Her son looked so sure of his own beliefs that he swayed her own for more than a while.

"Very well," she gave in. "I will return with the knife."

Tristan nodded. "Besides," he said, softly, as he leant in and kissed her forehead. "It is Valyrian Steel, if it comes back with us, then someone, somewhere will probably end up asking for it. Then we'll know for sure."

 _For sure,_ she thought as she kissed her son and they both mounted their horses. _And then you'll ride south and take their heads, that's what's for sure_. As Tristan put his spurs to his horse and Cley and the Direwolves caught up, Catelyn was brought back to another image, not her son, but Brandon, her first betrothed, when he had ridden south from Riverrun. He had promised he would return. He never did.


	15. Book 1 Shireen II

The main thing that Shireen hated most about King's Landing was the stench. She had grown up with the smell of sea air in her nostrils but in King's Landing, even though it was right on the edge of Blackwater Bay, the air reeked of shit, blood and worse. They were nearly at the Red Keep which, at least, offered some respite from the stench. She wondered how Lord Stark's children, who had never been there before, would feel about it. She turned her head from the top of her horse and saw that Sansa, ever the young noble, seemed to think everything was made of gold and jewels. Shireen pitied her. She had never had that feeling, her left arm prevented her from having such notions, from the time she was a babe in arms, she had had to have a more truthful view on the world. Arya on the other hand, she seemed bored by it all, more fixated on the Red Keep itself, intrigued more than anything else. She would have a better chance of survival in this city of vipers than her sister.

"My Lady," Ser Richard moved his horse up besides hers. "Shall I head to the harbour, see if there is a ship available for us?"

Shireen shook her head. "Not today, Ser Richard, we shall spend tonight in the Keep, maybe tomorrow."

Richard nodded and remained silent as the two of them followed the wheelhouse carrying the royal children into the courtyard of the Red Keep. They dismounted when inside, Shireen dusting off her dress and looking up at the imposing form of Maegor's Holdfast.

"Lady Shireen," she looked over at Lord Stark, as he came over to her. An impatient courtier waiting behind him. "I apologise to ask this of you," he continued earnestly, "but could you help Sansa and Arya settle into their quarters in the Tower of the Hand?"

Shireen smiled. "Of course, Lord Stark." She did not mind, despite their naivety, both of them had rather inquisitive minds. She didn't mind indulging their curiosities, Sansa had begged her repeatedly to teach her how to sing, and Arya wanted to show her how to use a bow. But she couldn't really help either of them; without permission from her father, he could not teach Arya to fire a bow properly, and as for Sansa, Shireen had always been good at singing, she was never able to teach it.

She escorted the two girls and those of the household carrying their trunks, up to the Tower of the Hand. "Please, Lady Shireen," Sansa pleaded. "You have to teach me how to sing like you do."

"Who cares about your stupid singing?" Arya butted in. "I want to be able to shoot arrows like you do."

She laughed. "If you want to learn how to handle a bow, I told you, my brother is better than me. As for singing," she bit her lip. "I am not a very good teacher."

"But you could try," Sansa pleaded.

Shireen sighed, she could tell that Sansa was not going to give up, neither was her sister, judging by the looks on their faces. "Okay," she gave in. "I am not sure when my father will call me back to Dragonstone, but if we have time I will see about the singing."

"What about the archery?" Arya demanded hotly.

Shaking her head, Shireen chuckled. "I had my mother's encouragement and my father's acceptance, ask your father first," she told the little wolf.

Arya grumbled. "It's not fair," she kicked at the ground moodily.

"Arya!" Sansa chastised her sister. "I am sorry Lady Shireen," she said quickly and elegantly.

She held up her hand. "It is no matter," she replied. "I know what it is like to be denied what you want."

"It's not fair," Arya repeated.

"It's the way of the world," a voice said from behind them that made Shireen spin, "fighting against it is… difficult." Lyonel told the little Stark. "And it is the way of the world, fighting against it is… difficult."

"Lyonel!" Shireen gasped and, without any modicum of dignity, she threw herself into her brother's arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his temple fiercely. She felt his own arms wrap around her like the bark around the trunk of a tree and she closed her eyes, resting her head on her sweet brother's shoulder. "Gods," she whispered, "I have missed you."

"And I you, sister," he replied, not letting her go. Suddenly remembering their company, Shireen pulled away, reaching up to brush a loose strand of midnight black hair from her brother's face.

She turned back to the Starks, both of whom looked confused, and Sansa was also a little embarrassed by the display of affection. "Lady Sansa, Arya," she said, turning side on between them and her brother. "This is my brother, Lyonel Baratheon, heir to Dragonstone. Lyonel, this is Lady Sansa and Lady Arya."

"I am not a Lady," Arya interrupted stubbornly.

Shireen sighed. "Lord Stark's daughters."

Lyonel bowed his head in greeting. "Greetings Lady Sansa, Lady Arya."

Shireen glanced at the quiver at Lyonel's waist and the bow at his back. "Why do you have them?" She asked.

"I was practicing," he explained, stroking some of the feathers of his arrows. "But then I heard you were back," he finished, cupping her cheek gently. "So I came running."

"Why weren't you at Winterfell?" Arya asked.

"Arya," Sansa chastised again. "I am sorry my lord, my sister has few manners."

Lyonel lip curled up into the slightest of smiles, and that made Shireen bitter for a fraction of a second. He was only meant to smile for her, it was a part of her brother that would never be anyone else's. "There are people with fewer," he replied simply, "and many of them are wearing white cloaks." He turned back to Arya. "As to your question, my father had an errand for me to run, I couldn't come I am afraid."

"Like a quest?" Sansa asked, giddy with excitement.

"Yes," Lyonel replied shaking his head at the ridiculousness of the question. "I had to save a princess from a dragon."

By the way Sansa was gushing, Shireen wondered whether she actually believed her brother's tale.

Lyonel looked as though he were about to ask Shireen a question, but Arya had another of her own. "Is it true that you are a better archer than your sister?"

Lyonel shot a sidelong look at Shireen.. "Yes," he replied simply, but not harshly, her brother stated facts often, but never meant them to harm. "If you come to the archery contest, you may well see me."

"What archery contest?" Shireen asked. She hadn't heard of one.

"Our uncle's friend has come south," Lyonel replied. "Your father," he added looking at the Starks. "The King will no doubt be hosting a full tourney to celebrate." Sansa gasped in sheer joy, but before anything else could be said, Lyonel spoke across them. "Now, sister, our father needed me to pass some messages on… in private."

She nodded, bid goodbye to the Stark girls and followed her brother. They descended the steps in silence, she rested in the glow of her brother's presence as they emerged from the tower. She'd wished he'd been there in the north every day, he'd always been there, and here he was, alive, well, whole and wither. They moved down the corridors and out into the courtyards as he led her out to the archery butts, where he turned to her and smiled. There it was, the smile he wore for her. She hugged him again, gripping him tightly around the middle. She leant up and kissed him before pulling away in to look at him better, letting her left hand trail onto his right shoulder. Even under the leather he was wearing, she could feel the stone skin beneath. He gently removed her hand. "Does it ache?" She asked. Sometimes his shoulder could ache, but often only after great strenuous activity.

He shook his head. "No, I am fine, truly."

She nodded. "What messages did father want you to pass on?"

Lyonel looked around at that point, as though checking if there were any spies nearby. "Have you heard what has happened in the east?"

She nodded, their uncle Robert could not stop boasting about it on the Kingsroad. He'd been more drunk than she had ever seen him. If their father had been there his teeth would have ground down to the roots as he cheered the death of Viserys Targaryen. "The Targaryen girl was kidnapped, her brother killed and Pentos sacked by the Dothraki." She looked at him with sudden suspicion. He'd been gone, now he was back, and while he was gone a city burned "Did you have something to do with that?" She whispered.

He looked fiercely into her eyes, and she knew that he did. Lyonel nodded, unable to lie to her. "You'll learn the truth," he continued in a hushed voice, "when we return to Dragonstone, until then, keep Richard close, I can't protect you from everything, I can't always be there, he can." He reached out and cupped her cheek softly, she could feel the callouses in his palm and the scars on his fingers from his bowstrings. She reached up and held it to her cheek, loving the warmth from it. Whatever he said she knew h'"d be there. It would come to her through fire and death to save her, always. And by close," he continued at his usual volume, taking his hand away, his eyes lighting up with laughter. "I do not mean in your chambers."

Shireen felt her face flush. "Sh-shut up!" She cried, looking away. Lyonel was the only person who knew how Ser Richard affected her, and, when they were alone, he often reminded her of it. It was the one thing she regretted ever confiding in him. She composed herself again and turned back to him. "If there is a tourney," she said, looking at his bow. "I assume you will be competing in the archery?"

He nodded. "Of course, it"s one of the reasons father sent me here."

"Father actually sent you here to compete?" Shireen asked, surprised. Their father almost never openly endorsed competing in tourneys. She narrowed her eyes, her brother had been in Pentos, around the time the city was sacked, now he returned with an endorsement from father to compete in a tourney and he was telling her to take more care? Something was happening, and her brother knew what. "What's going on Lyonel?" She asked quietly, stepping up close to him. "What is happening?"

Lyonel's head bowed and he spoke into her ear. "All will be revealed on Dragonstone when we return. I promise." She believed him, she trusted him.

She wrapped her arms around him again, and rested her head on his shoulder, the one still possessing soft flesh. "Are you okay?" He asked her.

She nodded. "I'm with my brother," she whispered back to him. "How could I not be?"

He closed his arms around her back and they spent the next few moments enjoying the warmth of each other. Then he pulled away and looked down at her. "Oh yes," he said, as though remembering something. "There is someone for you to meet."

"Who?" Shireen asked, confused.

"I know you don't have any handmaidens as such," he said, taking her arm and leading her through the Red Keep and back to her chambers. "But I found a little girl... on my travels... who could become one for you, I should warn you," he said simply. "She is young, scared and not of high birth."

"A handmaiden need not necessarily be," she pointed out. They reached her chambers and opened them. There was a chair at the desk pulled back but empty, like someone had stood up. Lyonel paused and looked from side to side. "She should be right here."

"You're back!" A voice piped up.

She peeked around the open door to see a young girl, about seven years old, with dirty blonde hair and light blue eyes, so light they were almost see-through waiting for them. "Aeriel," Lyonel said softly, though not particularly reassuringly. "I told you to remain sitting." He shook his head. "Anyhow, this is my sister, Shireen, this is Aeriel."

"H-hello," the little girl said with a very slight accent. She was holding a simple ornament in her hands that she'd clearly taken from somewhere. Her brother knew very little about girls or women, or children; he should have known that if you bring a child into a new place and tell them to sit down the first thing they'll do will get up and walk about.

She smiled at her. "Hello," she said back. Then she turned to her brother, leaning up to kiss his cheek. "You don't need to be here," she whispered. "Go and practice, I shall see you at supper."

Lyonel nodded, turned and left. Shireen took a seat and beckoned the girl over. "So," she said softly, "Aeriel, how are you?"

She shrugged. "Okay," she said, "Lord Lyonel made me sit in that chair for too long." Shireen smiled and stroked her arm softly, she had been dressed in a gown, which she was unused to clearly.

"It doesn't surprise me, Lyonel knows very little about girls."

"I guessed that." She replied.

Shireen laughed, this girl was brazen, her mother's handmaidens had always been collected and calm, never uttering a word that any would consider misspoken. She took a strand of the girl's hair and ran her fingers through it, coming across at least a dozen knots in it. She tutted. "Who tied your hair?"

"Someone on the ship," Aeriel replied.

"Someone who didn't know what they were doing, clearly. She said, picking up her brush and getting up, sitting Aeriel down on the chair she was in. "Let's get it done properly shall we?"

"As long as you do it better." Aeriel cracked a small smile. Shireen liked this girl, she was an outsider, alone, much as she had been all her life, but unlike her when she was that age, she was strong, it hadn't gotten to her. She took the brush to the knotted hair and began to tidy it up, making it more presentable. This girl was very pretty, and likely to grow into a true beauty. Shireen would teach her strength to match it. She hummed a small tune as she got to work.


	16. Book 1 Arya I

Arya was bored by the tourney. All day various knights had charged at each other with their lances. She wanted to compete in these tourneys, she wanted to ride as a knight and joust with the best of them, but every time she watched them, all she saw was the chances of her doing so slipping further away. It was not fair.

"Arya!" Mordane chastised her, "you are expected to watch."

Arya shrugged. "I don't care about it," she replied simply, kicking at the dirt, and letting her mind drift back to Nymeria. Tristan had said he would look for her. Had he found her, she did not know, she hoped he had. He always followed his promises, but he had not promised that he would find her. He was like that, he did the same to their parents, promising them just enough to get them to stop chastising him, but not enough to bind him down.

She sighed and looked up at the jousting. Someone had just been knocked off and Sansa was giddy with excitement. But then the king called out. "Let's get this over with! We finish the jousts tomorrow, clear out for the archery."

Arya sprang to her feet. She had promised her father she would stay for the jousts, not the rest, much like Tristan would have done it to ensure he didn't stay too long. "Bye," she said and turned, but Mordane's hand closed over her wrist.

"Where are you going young lady?"

"Father never said I had to watch the archery."

"You cannot just leave," Mordane declared. "Sit down."

"No," she retorted.

"Arya," she turned and looked at Shireen, who had decided to sit with her.

She raised her eyebrows. "What?"

Shireen smiled. "If you stay and watch the archery," she said. "I will ask my brother to give you some tips."

"Not you?" Arya was disappointed, she was just getting out of it, she didn't want to teach her. She saw that now.

Shireen shook her head. "No, he is much better than I am, stay and you will see."

Arya bit her lip, struggling to decide. She sat down.

There were far fewer archers than jousters, the lower reward no doubt the reason. She saw about twenty of them approach the king. She recognised Shireen's brother from the day they had arrived in King's Landing. He was standing in the middle of the line, holding the same type of bow that Shireen had loosely in his left hand. He did not seem concerned by the competition. The announcer called out the scoring system for the first round.

"You will each loose ten arrows at the targets," he declared clearly for all to hear. "The top ten will progress to the next round, the others will be out. Ready? Begin!"

Arya watched Lyonel Baratheon closely. Then her mouth fell open. As the others all lined up their arrows, he drew back and loosed his first almost without aiming. He then proceeded to repeat the process, aiming much less and loosing much more quickly, so much so that, by the time he had let fly all ten of his assigned arrows, the most the other competitors had managed was four. There were murmurs through the crowd. All ten were in the golden circle in the centre.

She felt Shireen lean in close. "Still doubt that he is a better archer than me?" She asked, and Arya shook her head, glad that she had stayed behind to watch this.

"How could he be so good?" She asked.

Shireen smiled. "My brother had… difficulty managing many weapons in his youth, hence why he doesn't use swords," she explained. "But one day, our uncle Rolland gave him a bow and he was instantly in love. Our uncle Rolland and our mother come from the Dornish Marches, the best bowmen in Westeros, she helped him but swiftly he was simply learning himself. No one has taught him in years, he is just brilliant." There was a strange light in her eyes, adoration and love, they were both clear to see.

When the round was done, it turned out that Lyonel Baratheon had easily passed through to the next round. There was one more elimination round of twenty archers, but then they moved on to the final. Twenty final competitors, including a summer islander and a commoner from the Marches.

"You will each loose one hundred arrows," the crier declared. "Whoever gets the most on the target, shall be declared the victor. Begin!"

Once again, the heir to Dragonstone showed his worth, only one of his arrows missed. His closest competitor was a commoner from the Dornish Marches, who scored three below Lyonel Baratheon.

The crowd got to their feet clapping and cheering loudly at the incredible archery display by the King's nephew. She turned to Shireen. "You're right," she said. "He is better than you." Shireen laughed at her honesty. Lyonel had approached the commoner who nearly matched him and was talking with the man openly as they made their way to the King to receive their prizes.

"He is brilliant," she replied simply, clapping her brother along with everyone else. She could not tell what the heir to Dragonstone was saying to the commoner, but the low born archer nodded and then went over to the crier. The black haired Baratheon boy claimed his winnings and left quickly, nodding to his sister as he did so. Shireen turned to Arya. "Would you like him to give you a few lessons?" Arya only nodded. "I will speak with him."

Later on, Arya was, at her dancing master's instructions, chasing a black cat into the dungeons of the Red Keep. He was a fast one, darting off as soon as she got near, but she would not give up, could not, not until she had caught it, this cat had made it his personal mission to bother her, so she would catch him.

The cat sprang off down a hallway, and Arya chased after it, though the hallway was dark it had to lead somewhere, all hallways did. But she skidded to a halt upon catching sight of a shadow on the wall, the shadow of a monster. Then she realised that it was made by a skull, the largest skull she had ever seen, that of a dragon. It's bone was black as iron and it's fangs sharp as swords. Several pieces appeared to have been broken off, but she couldn"t tell. She reached out to touch it, but then she heard voices and her heart froze.

"… certain there was no sign of him," said one voice, soft and silky.

"We fell upon the horse lords as they rested," said another, "his treasures were there, he was not, and he was not left in the city either." This voice was harder, that of a warrior. Arya looked around desperately, but the only place to hide was in the mouth of the Dragon, so she got in and lay completely still. "The magister is dead, we must move on."

The first man sighed. "True, though he was a friend, and will be missed." The second man, based on the sound he made, didn't seem to agree. "With both of them gone, we are in more than a sorry state, they were supposed to be the boy's line to legitimacy."

"Well, unless you can locate the daughter, we will have to proceed without them," the second man said. They came into view and the second man seized the first. "Here is far enough, any further and we may find too much light for liking." Arya saw that he wore red armour, with two lions, one on each breast, standing proud on his breastplate. _A Lannister?_ She thought, and then she realised that these weren't Lannister Lions, they were white and they had wings.

"You have a plan?" The first man said, he was dressed in black, with a hood pulled low, completely at odds with his voice.

"I do," the second man confirmed, "though we are troubled by your reports, if this war that you are saying is coming, then we will have to act fast if we want to take advantage."

The second man nodded and continued. "So we will, one Hand is dead, and as for the other, well, why can this one not die as well."

"This Hand is not the other, but things are progressing too fast. He has one bastard already, he has the book and soon the rest will come with it."

"Is that true," the second man muttered. "Well if the Hand cannot be killed, then the book can disappear, it is hardly beyond you."

The first man chuckled. "That would only confirm his suspicions my friend, I am afraid things are worse than that, the fools tried to murder his son. Worse, they botched the attempt."

"Wolves and Lions," the second man muttered on. "They were not meant to share a bed for long. How long before war?"

"I believe that is beyond my knowledge now," the first man sighed. "Soon, I would say, though without more birds-."

"The fat man may have been willing to cut the tongues from children for you," the second man cut across him angrily. "I will not, your web has lasted this long spider, make it last a little longer."

The first man sounded affronted in his reply. "I had hoped it would be of use to the boy for many years yet."

There was a brief silence. "And what of the Stags, they will not sit silent whilst this is going on."

"One courts the rose, seeking to supplant the other, as for the other one well, who can say, he has sealed his island."

"And the Usurper?"

Arya knew that some called Robert the Usurper, was that who they were talking about.

The first man spoke up. "The lion has plans that will remove him, I doubt even the wolf can stop that."

"He will try."

"Yes he will," the first man agreed, "and I shall help him, remember, we have the advantage. Robert Baratheon may be a drunk, but he is a warrior of renown, he slew the last dragon at the Trident, as long as he lives, so does peace, but when he dies, there will be war."

The second man grunted. "There is no stopping it, not even for a year?"

"No," the first man replied.

The second man shifted and Arya saw that his red armour was offset by blue hair. "Then we shall have to act, I will help the boy make a name for himself where I can. You control the flow of information, spider," he continued. "The Usurper must not know about him, not until he is ready."

"Have no fear of that my friend. There are many players at work seeking to bring about war and death. I will do what I can and, by the time the boy is ready, the Kingdoms will be ripe for the taking."

"Let us hope so," the second man said as the two of them moved off.

Arya caught a few brief snatches of more conversation. "You have a plan for it," the fading voice of the first man said. "May I know what it is?"

"You will know," the second man assured. "We have a contract written in blood, and when the boy is revealed, you may not be able to suppress it."

"Maybe not, but people here will only threaten him if he proves to be the man he claims to be. Although, by that time, there will not be a force left capable of stopping it"


	17. Book 1 Lyonel IV

"I still can't believe that you didn't give her one tip," Shireen said to him as they neared Dragonstone's port. "Would it have been that hard?"

"I did give her one tip," Lyonel replied. He loved his sister but she could be irking sometimes.

Shireen shook her head. "You told her to stop. That was not a tip."

"She's too small," he chided her. "Let her grow a little, then she can take up the bow again, besides," he continued before his sister's ethereal persuasions could get deeper into his skull than they already were. "Father needs us back on Dragonstone, I don't have the time to be teaching children."

He looked out towards his home, emerging through the mist. More ships than before were arranged in the bay, as expected of his father, they were perfectly ordered. He had heard the grumblings in the port as he left King's Landing, complaints that his father had all but closed the Gullet, as the Velaryons had during the Dance of the Dragons, inspecting nearly every ship to go past it, and, judging by the numbers here, they were seizing more than a few of them. He had heard comments about hiring smugglers to get through, or fly Braavosi colours. He had considered turning them in to the authorities, but Shireen had said otherwise; she had reminded him that Ser Davos would know the paths the smugglers would take and could then seize them in the act, rather than just for some angry grumblings. The Gullet passed south of Dragonstone and Driftmark, but it was the only safe way out of the bay, for to go north of Dragonstone was to pass the Spears of the Merling King, and not even the bravest sailor would take that route. His father had put it less eloquently: "Anyone who is fool enough to try and sail that route is not worth bothering with."

He called over his shoulder to his sister. "We are nearly home," he said.

He heard her approach and then she hugged him from behind. "You need to relax a little, brother," she said to him softly. "Life is not all about duty, sometimes it is the small things like that that bring happiness."

"You bring me happiness," Lyonel said, turning around. "And if my wife does her duty, she may well as well."

"You think it is true then?" Shireen asked. "You think father wants you to marry Daenerys Targaryen?"

Lyonel had told Shireen on the ship, when they were alone, of his true mission in the east, and the only reasons he could think of for it. He hated keeping things from her, but his father had told him to. "I don't know," he replied, looking back at the imposing stronghold of House Targaryen. "I can't think of any reason why it would be necessary," he continued. "As a house we would gain nothing from the marriage, maybe he just wants to contain the threat she could represent."

"Murder?" Shireen asked confused. "Father would never do that."

Lyonel knew he wouldn't either. But he couldn't think of any other reason to bring her here. He was sure they would find out soon enough.

"Is that a pirate ship?" Shireen asked.

He glanced at the low bottomed galley she was pointing at, and nodded. "It would appear so."

"Why would father bring pirate ships here, surely he would sink them."

Lyonel nodded. "I would have thought so, but our father has never been the most… open of men."

Shireen giggled. "I know, you follow after him in that regard." She wrapped herself around his left arm and rested her head on his shoulder. "I hope you aren't marrying her," she whispered softly. "I want you to myself a little while longer."

"We'll both marry someday," he told Shireen, "but you will always be my sister, first and foremost to me." Shireen gripped him more tightly as they moved into Shipbreaker bay and he leant down and kissed her hair.

As they drifted closer to Dragonstone, his beloved sister spoke again. "I had another of my dreams last night."

He held her at arm's length and looked into their shared eyes. "Another dead dream?" She nodded, closing her eyes. "Did you not take some medicine?"

Shireen shook her head. "I ran out at Winterfell, I don't know what it was Lyonel, but something about that castle made them come more and more. I didn't want to ask the Maester there, or Pycelle, I don't want word of it spreading around."

"It's okay," he whispered to her, stroking her chin. "But why did you not come to me? I would have been there for you?"

"It's like you say, brother," she replied. "One day you will not be there, and I will have to rely on myself."

"But not yet," he implored her. "These dreams trouble you Shireen, and I would understand if you didn't want to inform Pycelle or Winterfell's maester, but I am here, tell me. If it troubles you, then it troubles me, and there is no one who would not be troubled by dreaming of the dead."

It had cursed Shireen as long as either of them could remember. Some nights she would toss and turn in her bed as a person long dead invaded her sleep. No one understood it, at first it seemed that she was just remembering people from her lessons in history, but before long she was dreaming about people she had never heard of.

As a test they had locked up every book in Dragonstone to see if she truly was dreaming about people she had never heard of. Then she had dreamt of Melissa Blackwood, having never read or been told about her in all of Shireen's life. These people would often talk to her in her sleep, tell her things, their names first and foremost. It wasn't always a new person every time, sometimes one of the dead would return to her and talk some more, but they kept on coming.

Eventually, Maester Cressen had concocted a liquid solution that kept the dreams away, allowing Shireen to sleep peacefully every night, rather than let sleep engulf her in fear, praying that a dead dream, as they called them, did not come to disturb her. They weren't even always dreams of those dead people, sometimes the dead would invade her other dreams, her peaceful dreams of happiness and joy.

"Who was it this time?" He asked her.

She hugged his arm closer to her. "Our great grandmother, Rhaelle Targaryen."

"What did she say to you?" Lyonel asked.

"She said that she was glad that her line has not lost it"s beauty. That there was still strength left in it, that it might avoid it's destiny to fall."

Lyonel thought that over for a brief moment, then discarded it. He scoffed instead. "All that proves is that the dead are as much fools as the living," he told his sister reassuringly, "only fools believe that our futures are shaped by destiny; it's the Seven decide them for us."

They made their way up to Dragonstone, through a rocky pass that would make a frontal assault on the fortress very costly indeed. Despite their obsession with dragons, Valyrians had not been entirely stupid, for which he was most grateful. At the gate there were twice the usual amount of guards, though the captain of the guards, Ser Martyn Fell, recognised them and let them pass without the hassle that others appeared to be suffering.

Instead they made their way straight to the chamber of the painted table, where Ser Martyn had told them their father would be awaiting them. Though they first dropped their possessions off in their chambers, Shireen letting the girl handmaiden stay in her room until they were done, they eventually made their way to the chamber of the painted table. As they approached the hard oak door, it opened and a woman, taller than Lyonel and clad in flame red robes, a gold choker inset with a ruby around her throat, and even her eyes burned with red, emerged from the other side, giving them a passing nod before moving past them.

They looked at each other, neither of them recognising the woman in red. They would talk about it with their father in the chamber.

Lord Stannis Baratheon was sitting at the far end of the chamber, looking out over the bay, his wife beside him, was looking backwards with venom at the red woman, though her expression changed when she saw Lyonel and Shireen enter. "My children!" She rushed over to them, hugging them fiercely. Lyonel hugged her back, running his fingers through her hair before stepping back. Their father had stood up and marched over to them.

"Lyonel," he said, nodding. "Shireen, it is good to see you."

Shireen smiled widely and, given that they were only family, hugged her father tightly. "Father," she whispered. Their father hugged Shireen back, holding her close, when no one was near, Lord Stannis did allow himself to be a father.

"Is it done?" He asked Lyonel.

"Yes father," he replied. "Ten thousand gold dragons."

Stannis nodded. "Good. This will be the one time I will approve of Robert"s ridiculous spending. Though I think he would have a fit if he ever learnt that I said those words."

"He won't hear it from us, father," Shireen said.

An object caught his eye, or rather several objects, Lyonel looked closer at the table and saw that several ship figures had been placed on Dragonstone, facing the rest of Westeros. "Father?" He asked, pointing to them. "What is going on here?"

Lady Myrielle nodded to her husband, and Stannis walked around the table until they were facing each other across it. "Close the door," he said, and Lyonel did so. Confused as to what his father was about to say. "There is corruption in the court," he told them gravely. "A corruption so deep that it has supplanted the rightful laws of the realm."

"What are you talking about father?" Shireen asked. Lyonel had learned to stay quiet until his father was finished. She had not. "What corruption?"

"The king has been made a fool of," their father said. "He has been dressed in motley and been given horns."

Lyonel's breath hitched. "The Queen has taken a lover?" He asked, unable to stop himself.

"Far worse than that," his mother said, moving around the table to join her husband.

Lyonel and Shireen looked first to each other, seeing confusion in the eyes of the other. Then they looked across the table, seeing their own eyes and hair in their father, and their sharp facial features in their mother. She looked to Stannis, who nodded to her. "The queen's lover is her brother, Ser Jaime, and there is more to it than that, it is not so simple."

"How so mother?" Lyonel asked. He looked at Shireen, who was pale with disgust at the thought of brother lying with sister. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder consolingly, rubbing it gently.

This time it was their father who answered. "The royal children, Prince Joffrey, Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella, they are born of that union."

Lyonel gripped the edge of the table and shuddered. It was ridiculous, how could that possibly be true? But how could his father lie? Two things that could not be true. The question was, which was more likely, that his father was lying, or that the Queen was not cuckolding his uncle. "How did you come to discover this father?"

"Over time," he said, "with effort, and the help of the late Lord Arryn, his help was invaluable to uncovering the truth in this matter. My brother has appetites of a particular nature, and in fulfilling them he left the final proof."

"What?" Shireen asked weakly, still struggling to comprehend what had happened.

"Look in the mirror, daughter," their mother said consolingly, though she did not move from her place beside her husband. "Question how it is that in your eyes and hair you resemble your father and his brothers, and how it is that the queen's children do not."

"Our uncle's bastards?" Lyonel asked, understanding, finally, what his father had meant. "But if you have discovered this, we must go to the king," he urged, "let him see the truth."

"And how will he react, Lyonel?" His father asked. "Think," he said. "If you or I were to go to my brother and present this proof, it would be self-serving, and Robert would at best laugh it off, at worst take it as an insult to his virility. Insulting Robert's virility would be a costly mistake."

Shireen looked up at their parents. "If that is the case, then how do we proceed father?"

"We hope for the best," he said. "But prepare for the worst, there is a reason I have been seizing the ships that pass through the gullet."

"War," Lyonel muttered.

Stannis Baratheon nodded. "With some fortune it will not come to that, but if it does we must be ready."

"There is hope," Shireen said. "Lord Stark seemed interested in Lord Arryn's demise," she said. "Maybe he can learn what Lord Arryn did, Uncle Robert would trust anything coming from that man."

"We can hope," Stannis said. "Though I do not doubt that the Lanister woman will try to do away with him, as I am sure she did Lord Arryn."

"Then we should warn him," Shireen said, looking at her parents. "Send a raven, or go in person and-"

"No." Their father said. "Ravens can be intercepted, and I will not risk either of you going back to warn him. Either of you."

Lyonel became aware of his heart at that moment, beating in his chest. "You have a plan then?"

Lord Stannis nodded. "We have the fleet, and by the time war comes, if it does, we shall have control of the Narrow Sea."

"But what about soldiers?" Lyonel asked. "You have commented before that the lords of the Narrow Sea can assemble five thousand soldiers."

"And mediocre ones at that, but we have two ways of getting more soldiers for our cause."

"What ways?" Shireen asked.

Lyonel knew what they were talking about. "Us."

Stannis nodded. "Unless Lord Stark can uncover the truth and safely inform Robert, good men and true will continue to believe that Joffrey is the true heir to his name. But there are other ways. Many houses still foster support for the fallen Targaryens, and we have the last of them."

"And me, father?" Shireen asked. "Who will I be wedding for our family?"

"That remains to be seen," Lord Stannis said. "If I make the arrangements so quickly now, then the Lannisters will catch on to what I am doing."

"I recommended Willas Tyrell," their mother said.

"No, not the Tyrells, I starved because of them, I will not sell of my only daughter to that house of unfaithful opportunists."

"If it serves us, father," Shireen said, and Lyonel only detected a hint of pain in her voice. "Then I will marry Willas Tyrell."

Lord Stannis nodded at his daughter's courage. "We will say nothing for now," he told them. "Do nothing, but be ready to do your duty for our house."

"Yes father," they said together.

Lord Stannis nodded. "Be careful, and make it clear to no one what is going on, I need your discretion now."

They bowed. "No one will hear it from us, father, no one," Shireen promised.

"Good, now leave, it would not do for us to be seen in here too long, and you both had a ship to unload."

They left, making their way to Aegon's Garden. They sat in silence amongst the smell of pine, contemplating what they had just been told. "You know what father didn't say don't you?" Shireen asked him.

He raised an eyebrow and looked at her. "No."

"What if the Lannister Queen does murder Lord Stark, what if she also murders uncle Robert?"

Lyonel thought it over. "Then Joffrey will seize the throne."

"Wrongly," Shireen pointed out. "The rightful heir will be our father."

 _It will_ , Lyonel realised. "Then, when father takes his rightful place…"

"You will be his heir," Shireen finished.

Lyonel did not know how to comprehend that news; him, the king. That was not how it was supposed to be. He was supposed to serve his cousin as Lord of Dragonstone. He heard Shireen giggle, and looked at her. "What's wrong?"

"My brother will be king," she said. "Nothing could possibly be wrong." She launched herself at Lyonel as they had often done as children, and soon they were rolling around on the grass of the garden. Eventually they came to a halt, side by side, laughing and looking up at the sky.

"How am I supposed to prepare for that?" He asked her, still unsure that it was happening.

Shireen rolled over so that she was lying on top of him. She linked their fingers over his head. "I'll be there Lyonel," she said, looking deeply into his eyes. "However and whenever you need me, I'll be there."

"I know you will," he whispered back. "And I am glad for it."

Shireen smiled and pressed her lips to his forehead. Lyonel unlinked their fingers and held her close to him. He thought back to the first time he had gone to court with his father, Shireen had come as well, they were both scared, but his father had told him, "hold your sister's hand, Lyonel, and don't let go." He never had. They had been in the throne room, and saw the king, so majestic holding court, their father sitting beside the throne, advising him. They had only later found out that it was Jon Arryn on the throne, their uncle was "out" they had been told. He knew now that meant he was with whores. "It may be up to you to hold my hand at that time, Shireen," he said to her.

She leant back and looked confused, and then comprehension dawned on her features. She took his hand in her own. "Whatever you need," she repeated. Then she got up and pulled him with her. "Come, it would be unseemly to find us here. Some might think that we will revive the Targaryen traditions."

Lyonel laughed at the suggestion; the Seven declared incest a great sin, why in their name would he commit it? It was they heard footsteps approaching. It was their mother who turned the corner. She smiled at the sight of them. "There you are," she said. "I didn't mention this with your father present," she said, "but something serious has happened."

"What is it mother?" Lyonel asked. She was being very serious.

"Did you see the woman that left the chamber of the painted table just before you arrived?" She asked, they both nodded. "Her name is Melisandre, and she is a Red Priestess of the Lord of Light."

"That's a religion in Essos," Shireen commented. "What is she doing here?"

His mother looked dark. "I don't know," she muttered. "She came offering her services to your father," she said. "Do not let her interrupt or sway your faith," she implored. "I raised you in the light of the Seven, do not let my work be in vain."

Lyonel placed his hand on her shoulder. "I am a servant of the Warrior and the Seven," he told her. "No god of fire will ever sway me from that path."

"Just as I serve the Maiden and the Seven," Shireen said, stepping up to their mother" other side. "I will be no more swayed than my brother."

"What is happening here?" They looked over at the sound of their father approaching.

"We were talking, husband," Myrielle said to Stannis. "As families should."

Stannis came closer. "What about?" He asked.

As they got drawn into a conversation with their parents, Lyonel found himself smiling, these moments between family did not happen much, and, if his father was right in his predictions, they would become fewer and further between before long.


	18. Book 1 Eddard III

_BLACK-OP1 - Thanks for pointing that out, it has been corrected. And I'm glad you like those two. Lyonel and Shireen are probably my two favourite characters to write right now, certainly for book one, though right now I'm on book three and Loren is really picking up._

 _shadespace - Tristan and Robb have their own arcs, Tristan is definitely not just a replacement for his brother. But as to him correcting Robb's mistakes; this isn't just a fix-fic for the Starks, that's not Tristan's purpose in the story. Also it's difficult for a less clever person to correct the mistakes of his cleverer half._

* * *

Robert had finally attended a council meeting, which was enough to surprise Ned in and of itself. But the topic that Robert was obsessed with was not a surprise to him. "So there is no news of the girl?" He asked. Ned silently lamented the hope that Robert had come to administer the kingdoms. He had been overjoyed when he had heard of Pentos being sacked by the Dothraki but that euphoria had died away and now he wanted to find the kidnapped Targaryen princess. Ned thought that there were much more important things to be worried about than the fate of one girl, the last of a fallen line but Robert's hatred for Rhaegar was blinding him.

Varys shook his head mournfully. "I fear not, Your Grace," he said. "My little birds have reported no sightings of her anywhere."

"A girl like that," Renly said with a smile, "with the Valyrian look, was likely taken to Lys, sold into one of the pleasure houses there, she will be no concern."

"I would not be so certain, Lord Renly," Littlefinger said with a smile as sly as a fox. Ned raised his eyebrow and looked intently into those eyes that revealed nothing.

Robert had also taken notice. "You know where she is?"

Littlefinger's smile remained. "Not for certain, Your Grace," he said. "But I was having such a pleasant chat with a merchant captain this morning. This captain was lucky enough to escape Pentos whilst it was being sacked."

"Piss on the bloody backstory," Robert declared. "And tell me, do you know where she is or not?"

"I fear the story is necessary to the explanation, Your Grace," Littlefinger said and Robert, impatient and bored, waved his hand.

"This captain witnessed the ship that took the Princess, the sails were plain, no identifying markers," Robert growled and Littlefinger coughed, clearing his throat. "When he was coming to King's Landing, his ship was seized and taken to Dragonstone for a full search."

"What?" Lord Renly asked. "What is our dear brother doing?"

Littlefinger shrugged. "He has been seizing and searching ships ever since he left, keeping some behind whilst letting others go, this was one such ship."

"We must ask Lord Stannis what he is doing," Ned commented, with the treasury in shambles they could not truly afford to delay trade for too long. "For now, continue, Baelish." Ned was curious himself as to where this was going.

"The same ship that took the Targaryen," Littlefinger said with a smile. "The captain saw it at Dragonstone."

There was silence around the table. "Are you saying," Robert said dangerously. "That the girl is on Dragonstone, on my very doorstep and we did not know this," Robert looked at Varys and Ned followed the gaze, surprised to see that Varys looked just as surprised as others.

"I have heard of nothing, Your Grace," he said. "But I haven't heard anything lately, Lord Stannis seizing ships had limited how much news we can get from there."

"Send a message to Stannis," Robert ordered, slamming a huge fist on the table. "You, Baelish, send a description of that ship. He will scour that Island from top to bottom if he has to, he will find the Targaryen girl and bring her to me."

"And then?" Ned asked. "What do you intend to do with her, Robert?"

Robert looked like he wanted to take up his warhammer again. "I'll decide when she arrives," he said.

"There is something else, Your Grace," Varys said. Everyone looked to him. "Well, the information is most appreciated, but also begs another question. Lord Stannis" son Lyonel was in Essos, is it entirely impossible that he was the one who brought the girl back."

"He was in Volantis," Ned said. He had said so when he had refused to give Arya instructions on archery, Ned had asked him. _My father heard that his father may have left something in Volantis_ , he said. _I went to see if it was true, it was not_. "That boy may be many things," he said. "Hard, unyielding, stubborn."

"All traits of his father," Renly commented making the rest of the table laugh.

"Either way," Ned said, who had not laughed. "He does not tell falsehoods."

Thankfully, in this instance, Robert seemed to listen to him. "Ned is right, the boy would not dare bring my enemy here." He stood up. "Send that letter now, nothing else matters at this council." Grand Maester Pycelle nodded and Littlefinger leaned in to offer a brief description of the ship. Ned meanwhile, stood up and followed Robert out.

"This is good Ned," Robert said, smiling. "If the girl can be brought here, then she will be no threat."

"You think so?" Ned asked. Hopeful.

"It might be good to have the Last Targaryen here," Robert laughed. "Show her the new power in King's Landing."

This was more the Robert he knew; laughing, boasting, ever eager to speak of his own glory, to show it off. He'd passed of the comment as though he'd been gifted with a splendid new warhammer. Ned remembered when he'd gotten his famous one in the Eyrie, he invited all the young men of the vale to lift, it, booming with roaring laughter when each of them failed in turn before hefting it over his shoulder like the child he'd been presented with but a few days before. He'd forgotten the girl, but the warhammer was close to his heart from that day forth, and after he'd slaked it in Rhaegar's blood he'd come to love it as his most prized mistress. He'd love a woman in an evening and leave them in the morning, but not that hammer, never that hammer.

"Do you remember before the Trident?" Ned asked.

"I do," Robert replied, almost dreamy, his eyes gazing forward and Ned knew he was remembering that night of dread and promise, of final oaths and wagers. He had hoped to spent the time quietly, alone in prayer and thought, had Cat conceived in their fortnight together? Was Benjen struggling at Winterfell, would he be left as Lord after the coming battle? Lord Hoster had been the last to arrive with his loyal forces after ravaging the lands of the disloyal Lords Darry and Goodbrook, and he'd brought news of the battle coming to them. Rhaegar was marching north with a host ten thousand men larger than their own. He'd wondered if they'd been wise to split the host, but Jon and Hoster had said that without Tywin's intentions known they had to watch the River Road for possible movement from the host of lions. At Riverrun the Blackfish had split with his brother, and it was agreed that Ser Brynden would take just under half the host and remain to watch the River Road for a Lannister advance. Robert had agreed as well, declaring he would lead half their number again to victory against Prince Rhaegar's army. The clean shaven veteran that he had been, even Ned had believed it. They had drawn the Prince north, crossing the Trident before turning. They would battle the Targaryens at the crossing, negating the advantage of numbers that they had.

"Back then... we could've done anything, conquered the world, killed dragons, marched into the heart of winter itself," he let out a booming laugh. "Now look at us. I'm fat and you're old."

"Not so old," Ned replied, letting a smile creep onto his face. "Not yet."

Robert laughed so hard his beard shook. "Tell that to the grey hairs you've got," he chortled.

He rubbed his chin and the flecks of ash in his brown beard. "I wouldn't seek to encourage them."

"Ah how I've missed this," Robert said when his laughter died down. "I loved Jon like a second father, but I haven't had a chance to just talk and think about the good old days. Jon just wanted to talk coppers and crowns, Renly would be busy admiring his dresses and skirts, Barristan stands like a white statue, Stannis just grinds his teeth, I'm sure that there's no enjoyment in that man's soul, and it's in his children as well." He shook his head. "The bow, I ask you. Though that daughter of his was quite a blessing."

"Do you think Stannis will find her? What if she's not there?"

Robert waved it away like he was swatting a particularly stubborn fly. "If she's not there she"ll be in some slaver's hands before long, and not worth bothering with, if she's there, Stannis will find her. He'll search every ship to confirm it or prove that Baelish's contacts have brains the size of his finger." He nodded. "He'll find her." He had a look in his eye like a plan. "There will be a hunt," he declared. "Yes, a grand hunt, in the Kingswood, hounds, horns, everything, there are still many lords here left from the tourney I believe."

Ned nodded. "There are." Lord Royce was taking his time making preparations to return to the Vale, and would likely ride at Robert's side in the hunt, and he was not alone. Likely there would be other tagalongs as well. Ned had had piles of requests from landless and masterless knights to take up arms in his service or to the king and the chance to be noticed by the king would be too much for them to miss out on. A royal hunt was no cheap affair, fodder had to be gathered, stipends for some of the guests, and the servants and hounds as well as the rest. But if it kept Robert in a good enough mood it was worth it. If the girl was found and Robert's mood was dark when she arrived... He shook his head. Robert wouldn't kill an innocent girl when she was before him, would he? Or had hatred of the Targaryens seeped into his very blood, his very bones, his very soul.

"My Lord." The two of them turned. It was Jory. "My lord there's a messenger for you, a Black Brother."

He turned back to Robert. "Your Pardon, Robert?"

But Robert was already waving him away. "Go, see to what the watchman wants, but begin preparations for the Hunt as well."

"As you command, Your Grace."

"None of that!" Robert called after him.

Ned allowed himself a smile as they left to the Tower of the Hand. "Did this brother of the watch say what he wanted."

Jory shook his head. "No my lord. Though he was rather more ragged than expected when he arrived, and he insisted on speaking with you, my lord, personally and at once."

Ned nodded. It was likely he hoped that as the Warden of the North, Ned would be able to get more recruits for him. _We do have an abundance of knights in the capital, though the idea of freezing on the Wall and defending against Wildlings is likely not what they had in mind when they deemed of seeking glory._

The watchman was a hunched man, a thick black beard covering his face, his black clothes faded to a dark grey. The recruiters were often allowed leeway in their dress for all their travelling. He had a sword belt at his waist , the pommel plain and the handle worn, and he was chewing on something, from the smell, he would guess sourleaf. "M" lord," he said, getting up and bowing at the waist.

Ned nodded back in respect. "Your name, friend?"

"Yoren, if it please you."

"You're a recruiter," Ned said, making his way around to his desk and sitting down. He nodded at Jory who turned and left, closing the door with a soft click behind him.

"I am, m'lord," he replied. "I was hoping to scour your dungeons for potential recruits, perhaps look to some of the knights from the recent tourney."

He nodded. "I'll get you access, and give your name to the knights, along with my own," hopefully that would persuade even a few of them to go. Every knight was a treasure to the Watch.

"Many thanks m'lord," Yoren replied. "But that's not why I came to you this day."

"No?" Ned asked. "Is it Benjen?"Had something happened to his brother?

But Yoren shook his head. "Not in the way you're thinking m'lord," he said, spitting out some red juices, confirming what he was chewing on. "But his blood runs black, making him as much my brother as yours, and in his friendship I come to you today." He turned his head and checked the door. "I hope to give you some advance warning, though it'll be known to all before long. I wasn't the only witness, and other riders will be riding as well. West to Casterly Rock where the lions brood, south to Highgarden and Storm's End and East to the Vale."

"What is it?" Ned demanded.

"It's your lady wife, m'lord. She's taken the Imp."


	19. Book 1 Loren III

The banners flew high and proud outside Casterly Rock. From his balcony, Loren could see the camp between the mighty castle of the Lannisters and the city of Lannisport. He saw the lion of Lannister everywhere, surrounded by it's menagerie of followers, the unicorn of Brax, the boar of Crakehall and the Swyft rooster were the three closest to the castle whilst others ran out along the coast. He could just make out the sight of levied footmen being drilled by their serjeants nearby, and knights clashing with blunted weapons or taking turns riding at straw men. After the three years of enforced discipline he had faced in the Golden Company, they seemed an unruly rabble. But a large rabble. This host that lay before Casterly Rock stood at seventeen thousand strong, with more men arriving every day, and Loren knew that another was marshalling at the Golden Tooth, closer to ten thousand, but still a potent force on the battlefield. Lord Tywin planned to have two strong fists, strong enough to batter the Tully men into submission and force the return of Loren's brother Tyrion.

The news had not send Tywin into a wroth, little did, but, with his typical cold nature, encapsulated in the husks of Tarbeck Hall and Castamere, had called his banners and prepared to force the lady Stark to return Tyrion. The ravens had been sent from Casterly Rock's rookery before the messenger had tucked into his meal, given to him as a reward for bringing the information to Casterly Rock first.

A knock on the door made Loren turn around. "Enter," he called out, and a guardsman opened the door and bowed.

"M'lord," he said. "Your lord father requests your presence in the war room, your brother has returned."

"Tyrion?" Loren asked, confused, the whole point of the banners assembling was to get Tyrion back, had he already been released by lady Catelyn?

But the guard shook his head. "Ser Jaime, m'lord."

Loren raised his eyebrows in surprise, but nodded and, with a wave, dismissed the guard. Instead he stood in front of his mirror and straightened his tunic, his moustache had grown back since he had returned and his hair was neatly combed. Deciding that he was respectable, he left the chambers and headed for his father's war room.

Servants bowed aside as he made his way to the war room, passed glittering walls and huge tapestries depicting Lannister glories. None dared obstruct the path of a Lannister of Casterly Rock. Windows offered clear views out over the ocean on one side and the lands of Lannister dominion on the other, statues, stained glass and marble busts all stood to demonstrate the huge wealth of the Lannisters.

But the war room was of a different sort. Cold hard stone, with no natural light, for Lord Tywin wished no distractions when he was planning his battles and marches. The last time it had been used, it was not Lord Tywin who headed the table, but Robert Baratheon, as he planned to subjugate the Iron Islands once more. When Loren entered, he was greeted by his father, his father's lordsbannermen and his brother, in gilded golden armour and wearing his usual smirk. The table was missing Gregor Clegane, but he was busy burning and looting the Riverlands.

"You've arrived Loren," his father commented. "Good, then we shall begin." He leant over the map. Loren knew that his father would not be the first to speak, he never was. Instead, it was his uncle who did so.

"We have two hosts at our disposal, strong and ready for war," he said, indicating the lion heads on the war map. "The first," he indicated the host on the Golden Tooth, "will punch the border with the Riverlands and invest Riverrun. The second shall sweep up from the south, take castles, one by one, until we reach Harrenhal. Then we demand Tyrion's return."

It was a sound plan, Loren knew, and likely his father's in the concocting. Ser Flement Brax spoke up. "What of Seagard, and the Twins?" He asked. "Lords Mallister and Frey are amongst the most powerful of the Tully vassals."

Loren interjected this time. "Mallister would be marching alone, Frey is too cautious, too… disinterested, he will not get involved. Alone, Mallister can do nothing."

His father had an approving look in his eye. He did not nod, or show the approval to anyone else, as was his want, but it was there none the less.

"Who will command, my lord?" Asked another bannerman, Loren did not know which one.

"I shall command the second host. Jaime, the first." Loren bit back his retort and held his tongue. What did Jaime know of command, he had been making war for three years, was he not the best choice? "Loren," Loren looked to his father. "You shall command my vanguard and outriders, as befits your talents, Ser Addam shall serve as your second. Kevan, you shall also join me in my host's command table, as shall Ser Gregor, when we retrieve him." He named another dozen bannermen, Swyft, Crakehall, Lydden and Lefford and more, who would also serve in his host. "Jaime, you shall be accompanied by others who's men shall be yours in the coming battles."

Jaime nodded. Loren knew that Jaime would have no trouble getting men to follow him, he had a natural charm that way. _But they should be following me._ "When do we march, father?" His brother asked, eager and impetuous.

"Soon," Tywin said. "We'll gather fresh men along the road, unite at the Tooth and then break into the Riverlands."

Loren beckoned for wine as the discussions continued without his input being offered or asked for.

()()()

"It may take some time for the riders to learn this method," Ser Addam told him. They were left alone in the war room after everyone else had left. "Ten miles in all directions, overlapping scouting fields, regular relayed reporting back to the host. It could take a year or more to train them in such a fashion."

"And we don't have that long," Loren finished unnecessarily. In moments like this he wished he could hire the company. He could take them and sweep the Riverlands before father had properly readied his army. True, holding ground would be difficult, but the Lannister host could invest the strongholds as they came. But father hated sellswords, calling them loyal to their purses and little more (it was one of the reasons he chose to spend his time in the east fighting in the companies), the same way he scorned the Free Cities, fools who fought wars with gold instead of iron. "How much can they do?"

"Four to five miles, out and back again, it needs to be simple, lord. These men are more than levies, but they don't make war their living."

"Clearly," he slumped back into his chair. "Do what you can with them. Get them the best we can get them to. I don't intend to let a single trout slip the net."

Addam cracked a smile. "I'll whip them into shape, lord, don't you worry." He bowed at the waist and swept from the room, closing the door behind him.

Loren leant forwards and rubbed his temples gently. This war was going to kill him of stress and incompetence and they hadn't even started fighting it yet

"Tired already, brother?" _Jaime._ His brother slinked into the room dressed in supple gold and deep red, a grin fixed on his face like a melon slice and his green eyes dancing in their sockets. He hated dancing.

He gently got to his feet, keeping his anger buried inside him, deep and dark but never forgotten. "No, brother."

"Truly?" Jaime asked, mocking surprise. "You look so... world weary."

"I've seen enough of the world to be weary of it, unlike you."

His brother's irritating chuckle rang in his ears like a peasant child beating a pan with a spoon. "And with all that you've seen, you didn't get the command you wanted."

He curled his hand in a fist, but didn't strike, couldn't. Swords, lances, teeth, fists, Jaime wielded all of them better than he. He oft made a game of this as a child, goading him into a fight, just so he could. Loren could never tell if he was speaking out of genuine arrogance and disrespect or out of jest. "I don't seek commands like a cat after baubles," he replied through gritted teeth. "I am above such pettiness."

"I'm glad to hear it," Jaime said, slipping into view. "I look forward to smashing the Tullys with you, Loren."

"You won't be with me, I'll be with father," Loren pointed out.

"We'll be in the same war," his brother replied. "It's a pity it won't take long. I'll have Riverrun before long, and father will have the south, with your help of course. You know the Tully words, Family, Duty, Honour, Catelyn Stark will return our brother before long."

Jaime would know the Tully words, he'd been made to learn all about them when his father was considering a marriage between Jaime and Lord Hoster's daughter Lysa. Of course that had fallen through when Jaime had put a White Cloak on his shoulders. "Her husband is Hand of the King and Robert does so love a good fight. What if Robert himself should march to defeat Clegane? Then we lose."

"Edmure Tully will do it himself, he's young and likely hungers for glory."

"But Old Lord Hoster is another matter entirely. If that man has an ounce of his senses left, he will send word to the capital, and if Robert comes, we've lost." He shook his head. It was pointless, Jaime would never understand. "I'm going now, brother. Unlike you, I have a family to say goodbye to."

()()()

"Do you think Robert will come?" Aly asked him over dinner.

Loren sipped his wine and nodded. "He's bound to, he's likely fat and bored by the business of ruling. I know his type. If he does come, then father will have to retreat and relent. If he captures Robert, the Ned Stark will rally all those who oppose the Lannisters against us. The Northmen, what Rivermen remain, the army of the Vale, Renly and Stannis as well, the Tyrells won't miss out on an opportunity to put a leash on the lions and the Greyjoys will see an open shore of traitors ready to pillage. No matter what father believes, he can't beat such a force."

His wife nodded, slowly. "And you, my lord? What will you do if the King should march against your father?"

He'd thought about that a lot since father had announced his intentions. "I am a Lannister. But if father commits to war with Robert, I will not stand by him. I cannot."

"What about us?" Aly asked him. "Me, and the children. If you stand against your father and we are here..."

"I have thought about that," he replied. "When we march, you and the children will come with us. It will be a hard journey, for you will come with the vanguard, but I will leave you at the Tooth, where you can be protected. It is a strong castle, and will hold well."

"Tarbeck Hall and Castamere were stout castles as well," Aly reminded him, her eyes alight with worry. "That didn't stop your father."

He got up and went around the table, pulling her up and wrapping her in his arms. "Father won't be able to fight a war against Westeros and besiege the Tooth. And our children are his grandchildren. He won't kill them." He pressed his forehead to hers. "And if he does bring harm to our children, I'll kill him. Him, Jaime, Cersei the whole bloody lot of them. He is not taking them from me... He is not taking you from me."

"My lord. You speak of kinslaying," she whispered into his chest.

"I hope it will not come to that. Just as I hope Robert will not march. But I have to preserve some semblance of the Lannisters. Robert is open handed, and if I support him against my father in a rebellion, then he'll let me have the Rock. I promise, my lady, no harm will come to you."

"The children won't want to go. They don't want _you_ to go."

"But will they?"

She nodded. "If you command it. They will go, my lord."

He kissed her softly. "Thank you, my lady."

"You are my lord and husband. I will obey and support you however I am able in your efforts to preserve the Lannisters from themselves."


	20. Book 1 Shireen III

"Do you have to go, father?" She asked Lord Stannis who watched the ship preparing to leave the port with a hard jaw.

Lyonel sighed and took Shireen by the shoulders to try stop her from clutching to their father, but it was no use. "Yes Shireen," he said softly. "The king gave an order, and it is father's duty to carry it out."

She looked at him, with fear in her eyes. She was not sure that any other would be able to see it, but Lyonel would, he could always see. "But what about you?" She asked. "The girl is weak, and if Robert asks her how she got to Westeros, she will say that it was you, Robert will never forgive you."

"If that is how it is," he told her, stroking her hair. "Then that is how it is."

She clutched at his blue tunic. "But I don't want you to be hurt," she whispered to him.

More gently than usual for her father, he took her hands and gently prised the vice-like fingers from his arms. However she saw that Lyonel's jaw was clenched as he watched Daenerys Targaryen being loaded onto the ship. The ship would leave her birthplace and her home of a few weeks and head to King's Landing, to an uncertain, and unlikely very long, fate for her, and a completely unknown one for their father..

When the ship was almost ready to depart, his father approached. "We must be ready, my son," he said. " _You_ must be ready. I do not think that Robert will believe the girl, should she say the truth, he hates Targaryens." Lyonel nodded. "But you must be ready. I will try to speak to Lord Stark, convince him of the truth; this may yet be resolved without war. But you must be strong. If the Lannisters interfere, if they come between me and Lord Stark and telling Robert the truth, and if I cannot depart to safety, it is up to you to continue this. The Baratheon bloodline must _not_ be usurped by the incest-driven Lannisters."

"I understand, father," her brother dutifully replied. The ships in the harbour moaned in the harbour, like fat old men being told they couldn't have more to eat or their guts would explode.

"I'll help him father," she promised him. Lord Stannis looked at her with a rare softness in his eyes.

"You'll help each other. I could always trust you to do that." They were hardly the best departing words, they didn't touch the heart or leave a lump in her throat. But they were enough. Her father had no intention of dying. No intention of leaving them. No intention of visiting her dreams.

He boarded the ramp, his shoulders square and cloak hanging from his shoulders like a wing not yet taken flight. With a nod the ship cast off from Dragonstone harbour. Their father watched them from the back of the ship. He didn't wave; didn't call out a final farewell, but he was there. She pulled herself closer to her brother's warmth as their father drifted further and further out of sight.

"He'll be fine," Lyonel whispered, weather to her or himself she didn't know. "He took fifty guardsmen with him. They won't let any harm come to him."

"I know," she whispered. But still, she worried.

Her father had never been pious, but when they were done on the beach and had made their way back up the carved stone path, she went to the sept, to pray to the Seven.

The sept of Dragonstone was more than a modest thing, Aegon the Conqueror having spared little expense in demonstrating the truth of his conversion before his second coronation. The Seven were depicted here in statues of intricately carved wood, embedded with jewels that reflected the light coming in from the window.

Only Septon Barre was present, who sent Shireen a smile when she entered. He was a kindly man, quiet and pious. Shireen's daily prayers were no longer a concern for any more than a simple greeting between the two, although he was always happy to listen to her if she wanted to talk to a man instead of a god.

She made her way over to the statue of the Maiden, always her first prayer would be devoted to her. She knelt and clasped her hands in front of her, bowing her head and beginning to pray. "My lady, I know my father's actions can be harsh, that he is firmer than some would like, than sometimes he himself should be. But his actions this day cause him harm, I know it to be true, he does not wish to send Daenerys Targaryen to her death, but feels that he must obey his brother, the king anointed in the name of you all. Help him, guide him to the correct path, protect him from the whispers of the red witch, who would spread her heathen ways. And if my uncle does the girl harm, please help my father understand that he is not responsible for it."

Finishing her prayer, she moved over to the Warrior, the aspect of her brother. He stood proud and strong and true, like any true knight, like Ser Aemon the Dragonknight, the greatest of them all. "Good ser, my brother handles the bow like you yourself put it into his hands. But he cannot protect Daenerys Targaryen, and he fears that he must soon use the weapon in the savage reality of war. Help him survive the horrors that will last so that I may never lose the brother that I have. Protect him, as he assists father in taking the throne that by all law should pass to him."

Next she moved to the Mother. "My lady, extend your innocence to Daenerys Targaryen. She may have been born of incest and sin, but she has a kind heart, and has suffered enough for one girl. Look into the heart of my uncle, and show him how to be merciful to her." She finished with a prayer to the Father, asking him to show Daenerys true justice, and to aid her uncle in delivering it. She prayed to the crone, to light the way for her father, to show him the true way forward, and to the Smith to forge him the weapons of war should it come to that.

After lighting a candle at each of the six alters, leaving the Stranger's one empty, she turned and left the sept, heading for the Maester's turret to see Cressen.

The gargoyles and grotesques that hung the walls had terrified Shireen when she was a girl. She had clutched tightly to the arm of anyone nearby, Lyonel, her mother, her father, Ser Gerold, Ser Richard, anyone. Lyonel had been scared of them to, although he never let anyone see it. Finally, when she was six, her mother had instructed her to walk the castle alone, that the guards were not to help her, and that Lyonel was not to be with her. Now she considered them beautiful, in their own ways. There were many of these carved wyverns and hellhounds on the path to the Maester's turret, and she admired the way they were carved. Many castles had gargoyles of some kind straddling the walls, but none could match the beauty of the Valyrian architects who forged these ones. She knocked on the door to the Maester's turret and it opened to reveal the young Maester Pylos, who had arrived recently. "My Lady," he said, bowing his head. He stepped aside to allow her entry.

"Thank you, Maester," she replied. Cressen was sat at the desk, looking tired, he looked that a lot lately. "How are you both?" She asked.

"As well as can be, when you reach my age," Cressen replied with a slight smile.

She looked to Pylos. "Busy," the young Maester said. "There is a lot to learn about this place."

Shireen giggled, that was certainly true. "You get used to the statues in time," she consoled him, reaching out and touching his shoulder. Then she turned to Cressen. "Cressen, I am out of the… potion you make for me."

"Ah," Cressen said, pushing himself to his feet and slowly approaching a shelf where he took a small bottle from it and gave it to her. "Have the nightmares been coming more frequently?"

Shireen was not sure. "I do not know, they don't come when I take the potion," she told him. "Sometimes they come when I don't, but sometimes they don't. I like to be sure."

Cressen did not look so convinced. "Well, maybe you should try to go a week without it," he told her. "We do not know what effects it could have on your body in the long term."

Shireen nodded, but took the bottle anyway. It could hardly be worse than having to speak to the dead when you slept. "I will consider it, Maester," she said as she turned to leave the room. As she left, she heard Pylos ask about the potion and Cressen say that he would say, because eventually he would have to learn how to make it himself. Shireen, thinking that Lyonel would be busy with father's duties, instead retrieved a quill and some paper from her chambers and left for Aegon's Garden. She regularly went there to compose new songs, she felt it was the easiest place to relax. Composing also helped her feel better about things, when Lyonel had been injured in training, she had composed a song about a valiant knight being maimed in battle. The facts were wrong, but the sentiment was correct, and that was everything.

She sat down on a stone bench and thought about what would be the best way to compose a song about a maiden going to what may be her death. A journey to a marriage was too happy and joyful, but to the executioners block, that was far too morose. She spun the quill in her hand and thought. Something that tugged at the heartstrings of the listeners, that was her aim. A maiden had to be involved, so she scratched the word onto the paper, and thought about what kind of story could be similar to that, if the maiden was clearly a Targaryen, then her Uncle might be driven to kill the girl if he heard it. The people of court loved the songs of the impossible love. The story of Aemon the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys always brought at least some to tears. So perhaps the story of a young maid, being sent away as a hostage to her father's rival, but her beauty and innocence moved him to mercy in all things. That was a simple and easy enough idea to work with, so she began writing a rough idea of how the song would go.

She had apparently gotten into the flow, because when she heard someone approaching and looked up to see that it was her mother, the sun had moved across the sky significantly. "Hello mother," she said, smiling at her as she sat down next to her.

"Shireen," she smiled back. "What are you doing?"She didn't reply, just handed over the beginnings of her song for her mother to look over. "I don't know where you got the talent," she said. "It certainly isn't from me."

"Please, mother," Shireen said, blushing slightly. "Everything that is good in me began with you and father. So what do you think?"

"I think," Myrielle said, faking a gesture of deep thought, but a smile broke through. "That you could make maidens weep with the bawdiest of tavern songs." Shireen smiled at the complement. "You should finish it and then, when your father is welcomed back into your uncle"s graces, after this mess with the queen is sorted, sing it for Daenerys."

"You think she would like it?"

Myrielle shrugged. "I do not know the girl well, but I think she would."

"Thank you, mother," she replied, softly. "How is brother doing?" She'd have assumed he'd want their mother there to help with the day's tasks.

"Well," her mother replied. "Not perfect, but he is able. Though he is a boy who thinks he is more a man, and men do not have their mothers by their sides. He doesn't say it, but he can't hide what he thinks from me. "After we were done, he said he was going to the hill," he continued, looking pointedly at Shireen, who smiled to herself.

"I should go to him," she got to her feet with as much grace as she could muster. "Unless you need me for anything, mother?"

She shook her head. "No, go to your brother, but don't forget this," she held out the beginnings of the song. She took the song and gave her mother a quick hug. "Everything will be okay, with your father," she whispered as they pulled apart.

"I know," she said. _I don't,_ she thought.

The hill was not too far from Dragonstone, indeed the fortress was easily visible from the west side of it, as was the harbour. But the east side looked out over the Narrow Sea, and that was the side that she was certain she'd find Lyonel on. She tied her horse up to a tree and moved around it on foot. Her brother was standing on the side of the hill, his bow raised and pointed towards a tree, a glance showed her that at least two dozen arrows were protruding from it. Another arrow landed with a thunk in the bark and Shireen called out to her brother. "Lyonel!"

Her brother, who had just notched his arrow, spun to her, and in a single motion released the bow string. She froze and the arrow shot past her. "Careful," she called to him, letting out a held breath. "You nearly hit me."

"Really?" Lyonel asked, approaching her. "Look behind you." She did. A snake was writhing in the grass, Lyonel's arrow pinning it to the dirt through it's head. After a few moments it stopped writhing and lay still. It was not a poisonous snake, Shireen knew, there were none of them on Dragonstone, certainly not poisonous enough to kill. She felt her face light up into a smile and rushed up to join her brother. "You should never doubt me with a bow in my hand," he reminded her.

"I know," she said, making her way to the fur that Lyonel always brought with him and sitting down. It was not that he didn't mind sitting on the grass, but that the cleaners had a fit whenever Shireen brought back a dress covered in grass stains.

Her brother joined her, slumping down on the grass, his bow resting on the grass. "How are you feeling?" He asked her. "I know Daenerys" uncertain fate concerns you but..."

"I was emotional brother," she said to him, sitting back on the large fur. "I know father is doing what he has to do, and you as well, but that does not mean she deserves what she may get."

"Maybe not," Lyonel said, scooting over to her and wrapping an arm around her shoulder. She smiled and lay down, resting her head in his lap. "Men often don't get what they deserve, look at father; he deserves so much more than what our uncle gives him."

"Women suffer as well brother," Shireen reminded him. She felt his fingers come and run through her hair, teasing out knots as they went, rubbing relief into her scalp. "But father will get what he deserves when he succeeds Robert."

Lyonel chucked. "Please, with his virility, Robert will father a dozen trueborn children on his next wife once Cersei and her abominations are dead. He'll do it just to spite Cersei's corpse."

"Only if he discovers the truth," Shireen pointed out.

"I hope he does," Lyonel said, and then, sharply, he said, "and so should you. If Robert dies before learning the truth then it will come to war. Father always told me that war should be avoided if possible. The Seven preach peace, it is the ideal."

Shireen looked past her brother's face, watching the clouds pass through the sky. "What about the Red Woman's god?" She asked. "What does it preach?"

"Falsehoods and heresies," Lyonel replied at once, his hand coming down to direct her gaze back to him. "Take no heed, sister, following that witch will only lead to harm and hell."

"I know," she said, taking his hand and bringing it to her lips.

"Lord Lyonel!" They sat up and looked around at Ser Gerold Pyle approaching them in steel plate, helm under one arm. Behind him came two young squires, one pulling at a pack horse"s reigns and the other carrying two poleaxes.

"Ser Gerold," Lyonel scrambled to his feet. "What are you doing here?"

"You skipped out on your lessons, my lord," he said, seizing one of the poleaxes and throwing it to Lyonel, who caught it in mid air. The poleaxe was Lyonel's other weapon, he had a shorter mace, for when he was mounted, the bow, which was his weapon of choice, and the poleaxe for fighting afoot. "I am here to make sure you know how to fight."

"But I have no armour," he said.

Gerold simply indicated the horse, which had Lyonel's polished grey plate mail slung over it. "No excuses my lord, the bow is all well and good, but you need to learn how to defend yourself better in close combat."

"What of his mace?" Shireen asked.

Gerold inclined his head to her. "A weapon that is effective, but short, it loses out to the sword in range, he needs another weapon to compensate."

Bowing to the superior knowledge of the Master at Arms, Shireen said no more as the squires approached with Lyonel's armour. She sat up, freeing her brother to change into his armour.

He sighed and began removing his heavier clothes to make way for the under armour and the sculpted plate mail. "Should you be so quick to change in front of your own sister, my lord?" Ser Gerold asked.

Shireen giggled. "We have no shame before each other, Ser Gerold," but she turned away at any rate. She thought back to that time, two years ago, when she had been riding with her brother amidst the trees and a sharp pain in her lower belly made her fall from her horse, her saddle and thighs coated with thick, spreading blood. Lyonel had been so afraid, so had she, but when they returned to the castle, their mother had explained what had happened. As Lyonel grew to say, it was difficult to have any shame in front of someone when they had seen you give your maidenhead to a horse.


	21. Book 1 Eddard IV

Excessive taking of the milk of the poppy was never recommended; it could lead to dependency on the milk and a puffy face, but Ned wished he'd had even a thimble to dull the pain in his leg now. But he couldn't, not now, not when everything hung in the balance. Damn Robert, damn him and his royal hide. Why did he have to hunt, why couldn't he have kept it until Stannis had come. He could have been here now, and Ned could have told him the truth. Whatever Robert's qualities as King, the realm was falling apart without him there, and so much could have been corrected. Raiders were loose in the Riverlands, burning villages and holdfasts, likely the Mountain under the direction of Tywin Lannister, a retribution for Catelyn taking the Imp. If Robert had been there himself he would likely have led the search for the raiders himself. He would have left Ned behind to run the Kingdoms while he gathered to him a host of knights and men at arms, joined at every stage by youthful knights and summer squires, eager to make a name for themselves. Tywin was powerful, in many ways overmighty, but even he couldn't stand against Robert. To act openly would be to invite retribution from the Hand of the King. He could command the North, call on the Riverlands through Cat; Robert's brothers were unlikely to sit by either, Renly was eager to prove himself in a real war and Stannis wouldn't let such a crime go unpunished, the Tyrells were by no means friends to the Lannisters, and young Loras had his father's ear and Renly's friendship. And he still held Theon. Balon Greyjoy was just across the water and his reavers were ready. Tywin would either lose his pet or his entire house. But no, of course he'd been hunting so it was left to Ned to settle.

And of course, if he were here, Ned could have revealed the truth to him. But now everything was in the air and unless he acted well here, it would all come crashing down around him.

A hammering at the door dulled the pain with distraction. "Enter."

It was one of his guardsmen. "My Lord, Lord Stannis has arrived and requests to see you."

 _Finally some good news._ "Send him in."

It had been some time since Ned had seen the Lord of Dragonstone, not since the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion, but Stannis had always been rather distinct. He lacked the natural good looks of Renly and a young Robert, with the Baratheon square jaw more pronounced and his hair cut short, his stubble a dark shadow across his hard jaw and his face set like carved stone. Unlike Renly, his six foot frame was wrapped in a plain grey cloak and simple dark leather. Behind him came a slighter figure in a dark brown cloak, wrapped around her like a sheet, the hood pulled up to shadow her face. "Lord Stark," he said stiffly.

He rose to his feet gently. "Lord Stannis," he replied, taking up his cane to ease his walk around the desk. "It's good you've come. Is that her?"

Stannis glanced at the figure. "You can take your hood off now girl."

Thin pale arms reached up and lowered the hood revealing a girl's face, young, soft and innocent, framed by a silver waterfall of hair and set with brilliant violet eyes. So this was her. He could see the resemblance to her brother. The memory of putting Rhaegar on his pyre often dulled, he remembered the caved in breastplate more than the face; but the face of the man who had passed over his wife to crown his sister the Queen of Love and Beauty, the moment where all smiles had died carved into his memory for all time. "So you are Daenerys Targaryen, the last of your house," he said.

She glanced at Stannis, who wasn't looking at her, then looked back at him, lips quivering. She nodded.

"So you found her then?" He asked Stannis.

A pause. "Yes. And after I'd done as my brother asked, I'd have thought he'd be here to receive her. Mayhaps he'd even give me my birth given castle back, or even to tell me I'd done well by him."

Ned felt incredibly awkward in that moment. Better to move the conversation on. "My Lord, perhaps it is for the best, there is a matter that I must discuss with you, perhaps best done in private. If you like I can take custody of the girl; perhaps she could stay with my daughters-"

"I have a daughter," Stannis said, as though Ned had forgotten. He would never forget that voice. "And I have men here of my own. I will keep her with them, that Robert will be of no doubt who delivered her."

Ned wanted to protest, but there was more at stake than the fate of one girl. "Very well, but we had best still speak in private. She can remain outside for now."

Stannis nodded stiffly and then jerked his head at the door. Daenerys tucked her head down, avoiding the hard, accusing gaze, and left Ned's solar. "Perhaps it is indeed for the best that my brother is not here. For I have a matter to discuss with you as well," he said when the door had clicked shut. "But you go first, by all means, Lord Stark."

"Very well," he replied. What did Stannis wish to discuss with him. Was he to reveal what Ned had pieced together, perhaps a few other details. "It's about your brother in fact, and his children." Stannis' jaw twitched, like he was about to say something, but he didn't so Ned continued. "I have reason to suspect, and evidence to prove, that they are not in fact your brother's."

He paused to let that settle in. Robert's brother didn't move an inch, not even his eyes. "I know," he replied.

"You... you do?"

Stannis nodded. "And so did Jon Arryn. And now he is dead."

"Which is why you left," Ned finished. Stannis nodded. "I thought she would come for me next. I had to be sure that the truth survived."

"Who?"

"The Lannister woman of course," Stannis replied, impatient. "Who else would stand to benefit? Who else would have cause?"

There was a pause as the two realised that the one person they couldn't afford to fight with was the other. "So why did you not go to Robert."

"Lord Arryn was going to that very night. He'd arranged for me to raise his son, that would be my pretext for leaving the capital while he informed Robert. We both agreed it was better that I not be here at the time. With me there it would be seen as a grab to power, especially if I did it myself. But Jon... Robert always loved Jon as he never loved me. He would believe it from his mouth... and from yours."

 _You could have told me_ , Ned didn't put voice to his thoughts. "So you went and found Robert's bastards, and the book."

"And then he died," Stannis finished.

"He died," Ned repeated. "So now we must act."

"When my brother returns from his hunt, yes," Stannis confirmed, nodding. "We must indeed act. This rot must not go any further."

"And it won't," Ned assured him. "As soon as Robert returns, I mean to present the evidence and reveal the truth."

Stannis considered it, but nodded. "He'll listen to you, he loved you as he loved Jon, perhaps more than him. Certainly more than me." _Not again._

"He'll hear the truth, and Robert will act on it. I promise this much to you, Lord Stannis."

Stannis nodded. "Renly will be pleased as a rabbit with a carrot," he muttered darkly. "He's been scheming to make the Tyrell girl Robert's for some time now, and soon she'll be a queen."

"She will?" Ned asked.

"Even with Cersei and her abominations dealt with, Robert will need a new wife to father true children on," Stannis pointed out. "Renly has been trying to push her into the court for years now."

 _So that was why he asked me about her,_ Ned realised. Renly had shown him a portrait of the girl, asking if she looked like Lyanna; she didn't really. He'd thought that Renly simply fancied himself a younger Robert, with a younger Lyanna to take to wife himself, but he wanted her for Robert... He'd better not suggest that to Robert, Robert would refuse to marry the girl then, claiming that she was nothing like Lyanna. If he married again at all. He remembered what Robert had said to him once. _I dream of giving up the crown. Of taking my warhammer and sailing across the Narrow Sea where I can war and whore. That's what I was made for Ned._ He had two brothers, one of whom with an able son and daughter of their own. If Renly so wanted this Margaery to become queen, perhaps he could wed her to Stannis' heir Lyonel, a stoic and quiet boy who looked up to his father and loved his sister. Though why Renly didn't seek the girl himself he didn't know, the daughter of Highgarden and the Lord of Storm's End would be an enviable match. "Perhaps," Ned said not wanting to reveal what Robert had told him in confidence. Not only that, but Robert would be a different man after Cersei was torn down. He may decide to remain and father children just to spite her. "But if I am to reveal the truth, then perhaps it is best if I do so alone," he said. Lord Stannis had been right to leave, he saw, with him there it seemed self serving and opportunistic. "How many men can you raise?"

Stannis ground his teeth. "A scant five thousand, if that. But I have the Royal Fleet."

Ned nodded. The thinly peopled islands of the Narrow Sea were not ideal to raise a strong host. Aegon himself had landed with few men but three dragons. But they didn't need to take Seven Kingdoms, just one city. "That may be enough. If I were to recommend, my lord, you should return to Dragonstone and raise your host. As soon as I reveal the truth I shall send for you to secure the city."

Stannis nodded. "Lannister roots run deep here, they will need to be purged, one and all, and we will have to act before Lord Tywin knows what has happened. I can bring enough men to hold the city, disarm the city watch if needed, and man the walls against a Lannister uprising." Ned could tell the man had something else to say. "Robert will certainly be more amenable to someone... if they were to bring him the Targaryen he has hated for so long."

"You mean me to have her?"

Stannis nodded, his neck so stiff it looked likely to shatter. "Indeed, though, I'll warn you, she's partial to falsehood and grand storytelling. If she says anything, take caution in believing it. Especially about my son. It was Lyonel who found her aboard a merchant's ship, she's developed some obsession with slandering him. Or maybe that was just to me." He pulled his glove a little tighter onto his hand.

Ned nodded. "Very well. I'll take note of it."

"Lord Stark," he said. "This city is about to become very messy. If you like, I could take your daughters with me. We could say they are visiting Shireen."

Ned wanted that more than anything. He had been surprised Stannis had offered, he was about to raise the point with the man. But that would alert Cersei, and he didn't know Lord Stannis. They seemed joined in this, but what if he were to use them as hostages to force him to support his claim? That didn't seem like the Stannis he knew and remembered; but that was nine years ago, and Robert had gone from muscle to pork in that time; and Stannis had to stew on an Island unless he was at court where it seemed he put up with japes aplenty from his fellow councellors. That could change a man... any man. And that wasn't even counting what others had done. Perhaps it had been the fostering arrangement that tipped off the Lannisters to Jon Arryn's plan. "No," he said. Lord Stannis looked affronted at the abruptness of the statement. "I do not wish to do anything that may tip off the Lannisters to what is about to happen. I'll keep them here and under watch."

"A fair reason, Lord Stark. Just remember that I offered." He took a breath and looked at the window. "I should return, my ship is waiting. If I am to leave, better it be now." He shook his head. "The sooner Cersei and her abominations are dead, the better."

He marched from the room and Ned made his way around to sit at the table. They would die, wouldn't they? He'd seen the way Robert looked at his children at Winterfell. He felt no affection for them, if anything he was disappointed in them. He remembered well the red ruin of Rhaegar's children, draped in Lannister scarlet to disguise the blood. Whatever Robert said they fought to bring an end to such madness as the murder of innocents. Did they not deserve their chance?

Robert wasn't here yet, though he had already requested he return. There was one last chance to prevent all of that. "Owen," he called and his guardsman entered.

"M'lord?"

"I need you to take a message to the Queen, ask that she meet me in the godswood. There is something important we must discuss."


	22. Book 1 Robb II

Robb never would know how his father ever did what he did. How he was able to keep so many happy with him, keep them loving him, at the same time. Every day someone knew was coming to him with a problem. One day Maester Luwin would put a raven scroll in front of him from Lord Ryswell who was disputing fishing rights along the stony shore with Lord Tallhart, on the next, a merchant was in front of him asking him to intervene in Winter's Town, claiming that another merchant was stealing from him and selling his wares, vassal masterly houses were asking that he adjudicate on their land. A masterly house was the equivalent of a southern landed knight, they had to appeal to their overlord to administer justice.

Then there were the marriage offers, which were the most taxing of all. He was old enough now to be wed, he knew that well enough, and so did his father's bannermen. Manderly and Umber in particular were pressing for such an offer to be made. None were saying it out loud, but eventually they would, then what was Robb to do? He didn't want to make a decision without his father's input, but to reject them out of hand would breed bad blood between him and his future bannermen. Maester Luwin had said he would help him manage it when the time came. Tristan just laughed.

"Another one, Lord Robb," Maester Luwin said and Robb nodded, indicating for the guards to bring in the next petitioner.

A man in a leather doublet and with a sword at his hip entered, flanked by two sworn men. Robb remembered him, he was Gawen Pyne, a masterly house, with a stout keep not four hours hard riding from Winterfell. "Lord Robb," he said bowing at the waist.

"Master Gawen," he replied, smiling and bowing his head. The master observed Grey Wind, currently sitting at his feet. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Bad tidings, I am afraid, my lord," he said, sounding distasteful at what he had to say. "My holdfast is suffering from cracks and my maester informs me that the cost will only spiral out of control if we let the walls deteriorate any further." Robb nodded. A crack in the wall is an open defence, both wind and foe can enter there. That was what his father told him. "Unfortunately, I am not aware of any masons of specific quality that would be able to mend them. I would ask your aid in identifying any that would be able to help me?"

Robb nodded and sat back, stroking his chin. Maester Luwin leant in. "There are three such masons currently staying at Winterfell, unfortunately, I cannot vet their quality, most of the good ones have been sent south, to Moat Cailin, by your lord father."

He thought it over, he did not want to give bad advice to a bannerman of his. "My maester informs me that there are three such individuals in Winter's Town right now, Master Gawen," he told his bannerman. "Unfortunately, we are unable to vet their quality, my lord father has sent most masons to the rebuilding of Moat Cailin. I will have one of my men fetch them and you can discuss purchasing their services with them. Is that agreeable?"

The Master smiled. "Quite agreeable, thank you, my lord."

Robb nodded and looked to the nearby men of Winterfell. "Tomard," he called out, spotting a grizzled guard.

"My lord," he answered, standing to attention and clutching his spear tightly. "Ready a horse and head to Winter's Town, collect the stone masons and bring them here."

"At once, my lord," he said, turning, and marching neatly from the room.

Robb turned back to master Gawen. "Until then, my lord, please make yourself welcome in my hall."

"Much appreciated, my lord," he said, turning with his men and leaving Robb alone with Luwin and the guards in the great hall.

"I am done for the day," he said, his head hurt and he needed some air.

Luwin nodded. "Of course, my lord. I shall return to my turret." He bowed and departed. Robb decided to go outside and see what his brothers were doing, patting his leg to get Grey Wind to join him as he headed outside.

The clatter of wood on wood was an easy sound to follow. In the courtyard he found Bran sitting on a chair, his now useless legs hanging beneath him. But he looked happier since he was surrounded by wolves: Shield, Nymeria, Lady, Summer and Shaggydog were all curled around him, all of them watching the two that were training in the dirt, closely watched by Cregan, Ser Rodrik's subordinate. Even Tristan trained with help, as Ser Rodrik had always told them, train with another who knows what they are doing at all times, otherwise you always embed your errors.

Rickon had his wooden sword held above his head and cut at Tristan who sidestepped easily and gently tapped Rickon's behind with the flat of his own wooden blade.

"A good cut little one," Cregan said, smiling encouragingly at Rickon.

Tristan snorted. "Maybe," he said grinning, "if you're looking to kill a chicken."

Rickon scowled and charged at Tristan who met the crude attack Rickon gave him and held him back easily, the wooden blades locking together. Tristan laughed as his arm didn't even begin to shake with the effort of holding back the boy. "Come on... Rickon the Chicken Killer, show me what you have." Rickon held on more fiercely with two hands and began to push harder and faster against Tristan's sword. Deftly as you like, Tristan slid his wooden sword up and over the top of Rickon's, sending their youngest brother flying forwards and landing face first in the dirt.

"Remember your basics, Lord Rickon," Cregan chastised, as Tristan tossed his training sword in the air, catching it on his foot with little to no effort. With a flick he sent the sword spinning and caught it deftly, spinning it in his grip until he was holding it properly.

"Do you have nothing better to do than learn tricks with that thing?" Robb asked as he approached the pair, Rickon dusting the earth from his training clothes.

"No," Tristan replied. "There aren't any women around."

"I should probably keep up with the rebuilding of Moat Cailin," Robb mused. "I could send you down there to see how it's going if you are bored."

Tristan pointed his wooden sword at Robb warningly. "Careful, brother, I am not a raven."

"Maybe not, but the lesser twin should follow the better one, wouldn't you say?" He teased.

Tristan, playing along for the sake of the younger ones, glowered. "In what ways are you better than me, dear twin of mine?"

"Leading," Robb began, ticking off with one finger for each quality he named. "Hunting, riding, listening, I am more patient and I'm better looking."

"Careful, you're asking for a punch in your pretty face, Robb." Tristan advanced on him and Robb glanced quickly at Rickon widening his eyes.

Tristan grinned. "Keep your eye on your opponent Robb," Tristan said. "Rodrik always said that, didn't he Cregan."

"He did," Cregan confirmed, smiling. "But he also taught you to keep an eye on your surroundings."

"Wha-" thwack! Tristan turned to look at Rickon who was grinning up at him having just hit him on the arse. "You little-" Robb charged forward and tackled Tristan around the waist, sending them both to the floor, making their wolves run circles around them, and making Rickon and Bran, who was sitting to the side, laugh. Cregan chuckled before pulling them apart.

"Did I miss the fun?" They looked over to see Theon approaching them, grinning. "What are the wolves doing now?"

Robb pushed himself back to his feet, laughing as Tristan struggled to do the same. "They were fighting," Rickon said helpfully.

"I see," Theon replied, nodding. "I checked up on our wildling Robb," Theon said. The wildling, Osha, they had captured during a ride in the Wolfswood. Tristan had not been there. He had only come back to Winterfell the day after. By all accounts he had been riding with Cley around the Barrows, not feeling any particular urgency to come back. Then, as he made his way up the Kingsroad, he had met Tyrion Lannister, and been unable to slip away without recanting the tale of why he was not with the royal convoy. All this had delayed his return, and he of course had to see Cley back to Castle Cerwyn before riding with the wolves back to Winterfell.

Robb nodded to Theon. "And?"

"She"s taken to her new role well." Robb was glad. He was uncertain that a Wildling would be able to serve ably. But perhaps she would have tales for father, would be able to tell him of King Beyond the Wall Mance Rayder. Father had spoken about possibly riding north to break their power and to aid the Night"s Watch.

"Very well," he said, brushing off his clothes. "We'll keep an eye on her for now."

"Lord Robb!" Robb turned, Maester Luwin looked most distressed as he approached. "I must speak with you, now."

"What is it?" Robb asked.

Luwin shook his head, glancing to Rickon and Bran. Robb understood. "Cregan, keep up Rickon's training, Tristan, Theon, with me."

Tristan rose to his feet and patted his thigh, Shield and Nymeria, who had taken to following Shield around, bounded over to him, Grey Wind came without Robb calling him.

They ascended the Maester's Turret to the top, where Maester Luwin had a scroll opened on his table. "What is it?" He asked. Luwin simply held out the scroll and Robb took it, scanning over the words on it.

"Treason?" He asked, looking up at Luwin. "Treason? Father committed treason?" He looked back at the scroll. "And Sansa wrote this?" It was not possible. Father rode alongside Robert Baratheon to end the Targaryen Dynasty after their crimes. What treason could he possibly conceive against his best friend?

"What!" Tristan seized the message and read it for himself.

At the same time, Luwin gave his council. "I would be hesitant about the authorship of this letter, my lord," he advised. "This is your sister's hand, for certain, but I suspect that these are not her words. They reek of the Queen to me, and we have no idea how many swords were at your sister's throat as she wrote this letter."

"This is dog shit!" Tristan declared, passing the letter to Theon. "Joffrey always hated us, now he is king, he puts our father in chains!"

"You certainly gave him no reason to love us," Robb commented.

"This is beside the point," Luwin said, breaking them apart before Tristan could growl a response. "The pair of you are summoned to King's Landing to swear your fealty to the new king, and to swear that you had no part in Lord Eddard's treason."

"There was no treason!" Tristan spat. "Joffrey just wants me to put my tongue to his boot."

"Your brother as well," Theon added.

Luwin seemed to remain the only calm one in the room. "Tongues to boots or not," he said, trying to ease the tension in the room. "You are commanded to go to the capital, if you refuse you will both be charged with the same crimes as Lord Eddard."

Tristan laughed. "Oh I will go to King's Landing," he declared. "And I will make Joffrey regret that he ever summoned me there. He wants my tongue to his arse; I'll put my sword there instead."

"That would mean war," Luwin cautioned. "Alone you would be dragged down and executed."

"He won't be going alone," Robb said. He would not stand by and let his father's name be slandered by the new boy king. He would free his father. His father would not join his uncle and grandfather in the list of unjustly executed Starks in that city. " _We_ won"t be going alone," he added. Then he turned to Maester Luwin. "Call the banners."

Luwin's breath hitched, but he recovered himself quickly and did not question his orders. "All of them my lord?"

Robb nodded. "They have all sworn to defend father. I would see what their words are worth."


	23. Book 1 Tristan V

"Are they here yet?" He called up to the top of the walls.

"Not yet my lord," the men up there replied.

Grumbling, Tristan lay his head back on the hard stone of the low courtyard wall, on which he was lying. He absently tossed a stone up and down, the sound as repetitive as a leaky roof on stone floor, and nearly as maddening. "They'll be here," Cley reminded him. The young Cerwyn was sat against the wall, watching Daryn and Domeric sparring in the courtyard with the light that remained. Their fathers and their armies had all arrived to support Robb. The Cerwyn's had been the first to arrive, only being half a day's ride from Winterfell anyway; Robb had expected them to marshal by their fortress to be picked up on the march, but Lord Medger had wasted no opportunity in being at Lord Robb's side from the beginning. Then the Boltons had arrived, Domeric bearing the main banner at the head of the column, with his father behind him. The Hornwoods had arrived the next day. The next to arrive had been the GreatJon and the men of House Umber. Tristan remembered well how Lord Umber had seemed to threaten Robb. He had been about to draw his own blade, but Robb, faster than he was, had just twitched his fingers and Grey Wind leapt at the GreatJon, eating two of his fingers as punishment. Now the GreatJon was claiming to be Robb's greatest champion. The Mormonts had arrived the day after.

The Glovers and their bannermen were supposed to come before them, but they had been delayed travelling through the Wolfswood. Now the Karstarks had arrived, and Robb had to see to them, so he had told Tristan to greet and dine with the Glovers and their bannermen, and that he would visit them all in turn and apologise the next day. The other great houses and their bannermen, Locke, Dustin, Ryswell, Manderly, and the others would be joining them on the Kingsroad in the south.

A cheer made him look around as Daryn held his sword against Domeric, who was sprawled on the ground. "Got you, Bolton."

"Laugh all you like, moose," Domeric replied, getting to his feet. "On horseback, you're mine."

"But we aren't on horseback," Daryn laughed as he clapped Bolton's shoulder. "And you're the one with dust on your britches."

"We"re off to go to war," Tristan called over, "don't do him too much harm." Then a short sharp pain hit his forehead as the stone he had been tossing rapped off his head and skittered to the floor. He cursed as he sat bolt upright, rubbing his forehead, he'd lost focus and this was his price.

Cley chuckled and even Shield, curled up beside the wall seemed to be smirking at him. "Shut up," he growled at the wolf. "You too," he added, shooting Cley a look.

"I'm not coming south," Cley replied. "You get to go to war, allow me this at least."

Tristan only grunted and blinked away the last of the pain. "If those Glovers don't turn up soon," he muttered "I will not be happy."

"You say that like you would be if they had arrived an hour ago," Domeric said. "You'd still be angry at having to sit down and entertain guests." Domeric likely remembered well Tristan's displeasure at having to sit down and eat with Lord Bolton's guests during his service at the Dreadfort.

He was about to retort when a voice called down from the Walls. "Lord Tristan, the Glover men are approaching."

"About bloody time," he muttered, getting up and stretching his arms and legs.

The Glovers and their vassal bannermen entered Winterfell without their soldiers, but there were still several of them. He saw the brothers of Deepwood Motte, Master Galbart and his brother Robbett, leading them, but recognised some others as well. Lord Forrester and his eldest son were close behind, and Tristan felt his fist curl. Rodrick had beaten him before, once, long ago, but the defeat still rankled him; he also saw Lord Woods and a man in the Bole livery entering as well as others he didn't recognise.

"Master Galbart," Tristan called, approaching, arms wide. "It's good to finally greet you."

"Lord... Tristan?" Galbart replied, apparently surprised. "I did not expect you."

 _No, you expected my brother._ "No, there has been somewhat of a clash of timing, earlier this day the Karstarks arrived, and my brother is feasting them at present. He has asked me to feast you this evening, and he will meet with you first thing tomorrow."

Galbart nodded, he may have been offended, he may not, Tristan was not the best judge of character in this instance, just another way that Robb was his superior. "If the Karstarks are here, then we must be the last to arrive," he commented as he and his bannermen approached. "We'll be marching soon then."

Tristan nodded. "Aye, we shall," he beckoned a guardsman over. "Go tell my brother that the Glovers have arrived," the guard nodded and made his way to the great Hall. "I suspect that tomorrow morning the order of the march shall be determined, and then we go."

They made their way to a side chamber, the largest they had. It was still nothing compared to the Great Hall, but the Glovers should have come in time if they wanted to be in that Hall. He patted his thigh and Shield came bounding over as they entered the keep. "So that's one of the wolves," Robbett Glover commented.

He nodded, reaching down to scratch him behind the ear. "Aye, this is Shield," he said. "He'll be coming with us, along with Grey Wind and Nymeria, two of the others."

"Three wolves," Lord Forrester commented as they entered the side chamber. "Are three Starks coming then?"

Tristan shook his head. "Nymeria is my sister Arya's wolf. They had hoped to go south, but the Queen took... issue with wolves coming. Smart move, if they had, they'd have ripped her throat out the moment she ordered my father's arrest." The northmen laughed at the thought. "Maybe they'll still get their chance, if I don't first."

"Let us join in that will you?" Rodrik Forrester asked genially.

"Maybe I will," Tristan said. "We'll see, won't we? But for now," he said, gesturing to the table laden with mead, meat and ale. Let's feast!"

They all tucked in, swapping tales of home and dreams of war with each other. "So, Lord Tristan," Robbett asked part way through, "you and your brother, you're reaching the age of marriage, aren't you?"

"Some have married younger," Lord Forrester commented.

"A man can't have two wives, Lord Forrester," Tristan replied, grinning and picking up his blade, drawing it slightly and kissing the blade to laughter from around the table. "And it would take quite the woman to separate me from my beloved."

More laughs came from that. "And what about Lord Robb?" Domeric asked. "What kind of woman could become the Young Wolf's beloved?"

Tristan chewed on a piece of meat slowly while he thought of his answer. "A fat one," he said finally. "If they aren't fat, wrinkled and grey, he won't be interested." The table laughed again.

()()()

"Do you have to go?" Beth asked him as he prayed in the Godswood.

Tristan finished his prayer before getting to his feet and nodding. "I do," he said, simply. "I would like to stay, Beth, but-"

"No you don't want to stay," Beth cut across him. "You want to go to the south and kill southerners."

"True," he nodded. "But still, Winterfell is my home, and I'll miss it, and the people in it."

Beth wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed. "Just come back, Tristan," she whispered. "I don't want you to go again."

Tristan knelt. "I know," he said, cupping her cheek. "And I'll miss you, but I need you to be strong for me, okay? I'll be back, don't worry." She nodded and wiped away her tears. She had given him an exquisite night before he had left for the Dreadfort, but she had not repeated the process last night, he knew she still felt guilt, and he owed Ser Rodrik more than to seduce his daughter. If she had come to him though, then there was no reason to hold back. "Be strong Beth," he said. "And please, look after Rickon and Bran, they'll need their friends."

She nodded. "I will."

"Speaking of the little devils," he said, getting to his feet. "I should say my farewells to them as well. Take care Beth."

"Tristan wait!" He turned back to her, eyebrow raised. She took a small length of silk, red as blood, and kissed it before handing it to him. "Here, my favour."

He took it, not entirely sure what he was supposed to do with a piece of silk. But he didn't want to upset her, so he smile and kissed the other side of it. "I'll do my best to return it," he said simply.

Outside the godswood he was met by Robb. "Good, Tristan, you're here," he said. "Rickon is refusing to let anyone near him, we can't say goodbye."

Tristan nodded. "I'll see to him." Since father had left, he had more of an affinity with their youngest brother. Perhaps it was because he had come back when no one else had, who knew.

"You may wish to take Shield with you," Robb added, glancing back towards the castle. "Shaggydog has already taken a chunk out of Farlen.

"I will," he said. "And where can I find our brother?"

"By the broken tower," Robb said. "I'm off to go and see Bran. Come after?"

Tristan smiled and clapped his twin on the shoulder. "Of course."

Rickon it seemed, had somehow gotten hold of a steel blade, and Shaggydog was ready on all fours to pounce on any who approached his master, who waived his sword violently when anyone approached, forcing them to keep their distance. "Rickon!" He yelled at the boy. "Put the sword down and stop this."

"No!" He yelled back. "You can't go, not again, why is everyone leaving me!"

"We have to," he replied. "We have to go and save father and your sisters, and bring them home. Now put the sword down." He drew his own for good measure, and the guards backed off, leaving him and Shield facing Rickon and Shaggydog.

"No," he said defiantly, pointing it at him, the tip unwavering, Tristan couldn't help but be impressed that he was holding it so steady.

"Very well then, Shield, go!" Shield leapt forwards and locked into combat with Shaggydog, fighting the black furred wolf back. Tristan lunged forwards and locked blades with Rickon, twisting and rolling his wrist so that Rickon lost his grip and his blade clattered to the stones. Planting his foot on the handle before Rickon could duck down and retrieve it, he slid it backwards, hoping a guard had the foresight to pick it up. He slid his own back into his holster and seized Rickon, who tried to rush past him. He pulled the squirming boy into his arms, trapping the boy's arms and placing his hand over Rickon's mouth. "Stop," he said loudly and firmly into Rickon's ear, holding him tightly until he stopped squirming. "Now, you are going to calm down, like Shaggydog." Shield had fought Shaggydog back, and now the black wolf was submissive before Shield. "Now Rickon, I know you're angry and frightened, and you don't want us to leave. But we are Starks, we have to look out for the pack, especially when it's in trouble. That means Robb and I, we have to go south, we have to save father, Arya and Sansa, and then, we'll bring them home, mother too. But Bran needs you here, and he needs you to be good until I return. Remember, he can't run or walk like he used to be able to. Which means you need to protect him, be kind to him. Can you do that, Rickon?"

Rickon nodded jerkily. Tristan kissed his hair. "Good, now, go and apologise to Robb for worrying him, and say goodbye."

Apparently Rickon had done as he'd bid. "He won't be happy until we return," Robb told him as they pulled their horses into the courtyard.

"Will he happy if we do?" He asked his brother. "He"s not even four."

"It's not like we have a choice. I am Lord of Winterfell, I will not sit as a craven behind Winterfell's walls and send another in my stead, and you'll turn into a deer before refusing to help me. I wouldn't not have you at my side anyhow, even if you willed it. This is our war."

Tristan nodded as he looked up at Rickon's room, the shutters firmly shut. Shaggydog was chained to a post by the kennels until the two of them calmed down, but that only made Rickon more sorrowful and hurt. "Mother will be home soon anyway," he reminded himself. She could calm Rickon down, she always could.

"They'll all be home," Robb corrected him as he mounted his horse. "Mother, father, Sansa and Arya, we'll bring them all home."

"You have a plan already?" He asked, pulling himself up onto his own stallion. Robb trotted towards the gate, around them swirled the cloaks of Robb's sworn swords and companions.

Robb glanced over his shoulder to him as he followed his brother. "We don't know enough to form a full plan yet," he reminded him. "In this moment I only need to know one thing. Are you willing to follow my orders, brother, whatever they may be? Will you have my back?"

He pulled the horse to a halt. "It's where I am now, Robb."

Robb's face split into a wide smile. "And so it is."

The roar of the footsoldiers and smallfolk met them as they rode out of Winterfell. Hal Mollen went before them, the Stark banner flapping on a great lance of grey ash. He was at Robb's right shoulder, Shield, Nymeria and Grey Wind bounding ahead of them. Theon was at Robb's left and behind them a double column of armoured lancers folded into a single great spear. He welcomed the grin onto his face as he rode off to war.


	24. Book 1 Loren IV

_Daemon Blackwater - Perhaps, we'll see when we get there. Of course, depending on what happened at Highgarden, Tristan may or may not be the best person to send, but that'll depend on if Robb ever learns what happened._

* * *

It had taken some time, but now Loren felt confident that his outriders had created a thorough net with which to catch sight of any threat to his father's host. Not that there was much of a threat for his overlapping lines of scouts to catch, every time they came across a small group of knights and levied men, they broke away and fled, or were caught by Lord Tywin's host and annihilated. In the olden days, before Aegon the Dragon had untied the realms into one, the Lannisters would have met fierce resistance from the Riverlords and their overlords from Storm's End or the Iron Islands, but now they were marching with abandon, and it concerned Loren deeply. How long would King Robert permit such a march, the man may be a drunk, but he was still a warrior, the Greyjoys had learned that, and so would they if they kept provoking the Iron Throne by attacking villages under the King's Protection. Lord Tywin seemed confident that Cersei's influence would keep them safe from royal reprisal and, once Tyrion had been returned, they would return home and all would be well.

If that was the case, then Cersei was of more use than Loren had ever given her credit for. King Robert had little attachment to his wife, and even less to her father, and if there was an excuse for battle... Loren did not fancy the Lannister chances against all the armies Robert Baratheon could bring to bear.

"Lord Loren," he turned, Ser Addam, his second, was riding towards him from the east.

"You have news?"

Ser Addam nodded. "Lady Whent has surrendered Harrenhal for lack of men to defend it, I have installed men there, but it won't be enough, and I would like them back on the scout before long."

"As would I," Loren replied. His outriders were not meant to hold fixed positions, but Harrenhal was not a prize that could be refused. "Send riders to my father, tell him to send a force to claim Harrenhal for us. In the meantime," he continued, closing his eyes to picture the map of the Riverlands, "I doubt we will face resistance from Maidenpool, but the Northmen are related to the Tully's by marriage, begin sending scouts across the Ruby Ford and up the Green Fork."

"Will that work?" Ser Addam asked.

Loren nodded. "Yes, House Whent and Mooton are the last major houses sworn to the Tullys in the south that block the way, with House When gone it is just House Mooton, and they can't act against us alone," unless King's Landing comes north with it's might behind it. "But should the Starks come we could face strong opposition from the North, Lord Frey is unlikely to open his gate to them, so they'll have to march down the Fork, and I would rather have some warning than be caught unawares." Ser Addam nodded and set to it, seeing that his orders were carried out.

Before they had left Jaime had scorned him for trying to memorise a map of the Riverlands, but Jaime knew next to nothing about Outriding, so Loren had expected it of him. He scoffed and put his spurs to his horse, he had a duty, a duty to his house, a duty to his father, and he would do it, who knew, perhaps his father would notice it this time.

()()()

His father noted the efficiency of his outriders briefly, then despatched Kevan with nearly a thousand men to make Harrenhal secure and free Loren's men to return to scouting. He'd told Loren that he was moving the host to the Inn at the Crossroads, where Tyrion was taken, and an ideal place to be ready to move in any direction. The only possible distraction from his father's lack of interest was that one of his riders told him they had encountered a force of men coming from the Vale of Arryn. Armed men. Had Lysa Arryn stirred from the Eyrie? Perhaps Lord Royce, an old friend of the Starks and Jon Arryn was leading a host of Valemen to retake the Riverlands. Or perhaps it was a merchant caravan travelling with paid protection from the Mountain clansmen; strange that they would walk rather than take the sea-route, but it was possible. Either way, this could be serious. His men would scale back slowly, keeping track of the enemy while he gathered a force of men, fifty knights and squires and a hundred mounted serjeants, to go and investigate in person.

Like feathers in the wind they swept east, the lion banner over their head, to meet with the newcomers.

They were a ragged bunch, mounted, all of them as far as he could tell, but no wagons, so they weren't traders, perhaps sellswords looking for work, perhaps raiders looking to take advantage of the conflict for loot. If so they were hardly moving stealthily, they were marching directly along the road from the Bloody Gate to the Inn at the Crossroads. "What do you think, my lord?" Ser Gerold asked him. A knight of solid stock and skill, and loyalty to boot.

"I think we need to know more," Loren said, and spurred his horse onwards to meet the group as they came along the road. His knights and serjeants fell in behind him, weapons ready as they approached the group, which had stopped as soon as they caught sight of him. "Steady," he said, holding out his hand to prevent any impetuous mistake costing him men.

He couldn't stop his jaw dropping when he caught sight of who was leading them. "Tyrion?" His brother looked out of place at the best of times, if he didn't then you were in a very strange place; but here, surrounded by axe wielding barbarians on scruffy horses with furs and horns, he looked more out of place than ever. He cast his eyes over Tyrion's companions. One of them had possibly the largest, roughest axe Loren had ever seen and a cascade of rough brown hair and beard. Another one was a youth of fewer than twenty years. At his waist was a steel sword, clean and sharp, clearly made for a knight, clearly not made for this man. Despite his youth, he was the clearest leader of the group, the men behind him were more silent, more collected, but Loren could still see the hidden anger and rage behind their eyes. Another leader was a woman, just about, she was flat as a boy and wouldn't be considered pretty by the most forgiving of souls, but around her neck were three great strings of... ears.

"Loren," Tyrion replied with a genial smile. "I'd heard you were coming back. I wish we'd caught up sooner."

"And I heard you were a prisoner. Instead you're wondering the Riverlands with some... reputable company."

"Oh we aren't wondering, brother, in fact, we are looking for father. Given that you appear to be armoured for war, I assume that you are with him."

He ground his teeth. Why did Tyrion assume he was with father? Could he not be out here alone? Was he just father's lapdog? "Not at this very moment, but I am commanding the outriders of his host. But before I take you back to him, I should really ask... who are they, what the bloody hell are you doing with them?"

Tyrino gestured to his fellows. "These are my new friends. This is Shagga, son of Dolf, of the Stone Crows," he gestured to the axeman. "This is Timett son of Timett, of the Burned Men," the lithe warrior with the trophy sword, "and this fair maiden is Chella, daughter of Cheyk, of the Black Ears. And this is my good friend Bronn." Loren hadn"t even noticed the man at Tyrion's shoulder. He wasn't armoured in horns and rusted mail, instead he had a mail shirt, a rough and worn longsword at his waist and wiry black hair atop his head, his stubble was that of a man on the road.

"Just Bronn?" He asked. He had the look of a sellsword, not a nobleman"s choice, but he could be an impoverished knight Tyrion had taken a fancy to.

"Just Bronn," Bronn confirmed.

"I see," he said, looking over the men. "So, Shagga, son of Dolf, Timett son of Timett and Chella daughter of Cheyk." When coming across a party armed in such a way, it was never wise to provoke them by forgetting names so quickly. "Well, are they coming with us?"

"They are," Tyrion nodded. "I have made them certain promises, and-

"If the halfman doesn't deliver what he has promised, then Shagga, son of Dolf, shall cut off his manhood-"

"- and feet it to the goats, yes, thank you Shagga." Tyrion looked grossly uncomfortable, and Loren couldn't help but let his lip curl up a little.

"Well then," he said. "We had best get you to father. Gerold, he turned to his knight. "Tell the outriders to resume as usual, we've dealt with the incursion."

Gerold nodded. "At once my lord."

"Incursion, brother?" Tyrion asked as Gerold handed the banner to another before riding off to spread the word amongst his outriders. "You wound me, besides, how did you see us, we didn't see your men."

"You weren't meant to," Loren replied. "And yes, until I say otherwise, whenever an armed force is seen by my eyes approaching our host, it's an incursion."

()()()

He'd left Tyrion and his father to discuss whatever promises Tyrion had made to his clansmen, he had other things to be doing than being ignored by others.

He claimed one of the rooms at the Inn, one of the smaller ones, out of the from most and far away from his father's. Inside he looked over his map of the Riverlands, the south was theirs, and Jaime was keeping the west contained with Riverrun under siege and Ser Edmure captured. The biggest concern as of this moment were the harrying parties. Some of the gatherings they'd shattered so far were gathering and learning, they weren't coming for the hard host of twenty thousand men, but hacking at the supply lines. His father had unleashed Gregor Clegane to hunt them down, and their sellswords and Amory Lorch as well, his pet dogs; but still, it didn't bode well that these men were still battling the Lannister host. But that wasn't his duty, he was the eyes of the army.

There was a knocking at his door. "Enter," he called.

Ser Gerold opened the door. "My Lord," he bowed at the waist, your outriders are back on their duties, though this came down from the north." He held out a red ribbon. Loren took it.

"I see," red ribbon, which was that one. He opened his logbook, tracing his finger along it. It was either two and a half weeks ago, or five days. Given the relay system he'd put in, it would have to be five days. "I must go and see father."

"Of course, my lord," Gerold replied, not questioning him.

His father and Tyrion were still together, not that it surprised him, what did is that both of them, even lord Tywin, looked cheerful. "Why the cheer?" He asked, passing over any form of greeting for the two of them.

"Why not, brother, we've just added hundreds of warriors to the army and there is now no king to stop our march."

 _Our march? You"ve only just joined it you self obsessed bastard!_ "What do you mean, no king?"

"Robert Baratheon is dead," Lord Tywin said simply. "We heard the news while you were out retrieving your brother. Now Joffrey rules in King's Landing." That changes things. That changes a lot. "Now we no longer have to worry about your feared retribution from King Robert, Cersei won't let Joffrey act against us even if he wanted to, and Lord Stark is, as you know, in a prison cell."

That may well secure their southern flank, still, father was lucky, this whole invasion was ill conceived and illegal. Had Robert not died, they could well have faced his retribution. Did Cersei have a hand in that? Did father? He shook his head. "It may be that we don't face danger from King's Landing any more, father, but we face a new threat." He held up his ribbon."

"A ribbon?" Tyrion asked. "Did you lose your heart in the east, brother?"

He lashed out with his foot, kicking the leg of Tyrion's chair and scattering his imp of a brother to the floor.

Tyrion cried out in pain as his wine spilled over the stone floor. He tried to get up but he planted his foot on Tyrion's back and forced him to the ground again. "This is a message from my scouts, little man," he snarled before looking at his father, who observed the two brother's passively. "Five days ago a Stark host crossed the Neck."


	25. Book 1 Robb III

_Fapman: It's not dwarf hate, Loren just doesn't like Tyrion, or people making jokes at his expense._

 _AO Black: Why is he the least favourite, may I ask?_

 _Omega Gogeta: I believe it's a Shireen next, but Lyonel does have one more this book, so he's not done yet._

 _We are all the Nowhere Man: Loren is more extreme than Stannis in terms of brotherly feelings, Stannis still respects and, to a degree, loves Robert, the only members of his family that Loren likes at all are his wife and kids._

* * *

They emerged from the Neck with eighteen thousand swords at their back onto the fertile plains of the Riverlands. He had left Winterfell with twelve thousand men; on the way south another six thousand had joined him: Men of Manderly, Dustin, Ryswell and Locke, the Manderly column had joined them last, at Moat Cailin, and his mother had come with them.

That had all gone to plan. Ever since Brandon the Burner had put the torch to his father's ships, the North had no strength at sea, certainly not enough to transport a host south. But now there was a decision to be made.

"Lord Tywin is sitting near Harrenhal and the Ruby Ford," he outlined to his lords bannermen. "And his son the Kingslayer has invested Riverrun with his host."

"Leaving the father's strength divided," Tristan said. "We face him, cut the head from the snake and clear the way to King"s Landing." Lords Umber and Karstark seemingly agreed with his twin's plan, but Robb wasn't so sure, and nor were some of the others, Lord Bolton was eying Tristan wearily, and Ser Wylis Manderly looked equally uncertain. If Robb marched along the Green Fork then he was banking everything on a single battle with Tywin Lannister. But between him and Jaime Lannister were the Twins of House Frey. Things had looked promising at first, his own scouts reported that Lannister scouts had been repelled from the Frey Lands, but, as his mother had pointed out, there was a difference between defending your own lands and marching against the enemy.

"I would sooner face the cub than the lion," Galbart Glover replied to Tristan. "Cross the Trident here, liberate Riverrun and add the strength of House Tully to our own."

"To do that we'll have to cross the Trident, that means the Twins," Robb commented, glancing at his mother. "Lord Frey, your father's bannerman, will he let us cross?"

"The Late Lord Frey, my father always said," his mother replied. "This man arrived at the Trident only after the battle was won. He doesn't take oaths too seriously, and with the Lannisters seemingly on the ascendant, he will not see a reason to do so."

Robb refused to let his head bow, however much he felt like it. His father always told him to be strong, now he had to be, his father's life depended on it. "I should talk to him."

"You'll be as likely to end up in chains as anything else," Lord Bolton said. "Lord Robb, if you go to Lord Frey yourself he can send you to the Lannisters or the Queen as he wishes."

"I'll go," his mother said, making him look up in alarm. "I have know Lord Frey since I was a child, he wouldn't harm me, and I believe that I can get him to open the bridge for you."

"Make sure to tell him that if he lays a finger on you I'll rip his entrails out and feed them to my wolves," Tristan said, making most of the Lords laugh at the threat.

Robb watched his mother's lips curl upwards in a thin smile. Tristan's words, brash and vulgar though they might be, brought her a certain reassurance, as they did him, his protection was always there for any Stark, and Robb would be sad to miss him on the campaign south. "Perhaps not," his mother replied light heartedly. "But thank you anyway, Tristan."

He nodded to her then turned to Robb. "If we're going to be waiting for mother, no sense doing so inside a tent."

Robb nodded. "True enough. Let's leave for now and reconvene when mother returns."

As the other lords departed for their own tents, Robb escorted his mother to the edge of the camp. "Be careful mother," he whispered as she climbed her horse.

She smiled down at him and reached down, cupping his cheek. "I am not the one who needs to be careful," she pointed out. "Tristan's heart is in the right place, but he needs to learn that sometimes his words do more harm than good."

Robb smiled. "If a year with Roose Bolton didn't hammer that in, I don't know what will."

"You're his twin, Robb," she reminded him. "Tristan always listened to you, and always will." Ser Stevron Frey, Lord Walder's eldest son, was riding past them, a guarantee of his mother's protection inside the Twins. "I must be going, my father and brother can't wait any longer."

Robb nodded. "I'll talk to Tristan."

"Are you sure of your decision?" She asked.

He nodded. "I am, I want to fight my first battle with Tristan at my side, but this must be done." He watched as his mother left for the imposing castles of the Twins, before turning and making for the camp and his twin.

Tristan was propped up against a tree, his companions, Daryn Hornwood and Domeric Bolton with him. "Tristan," he called as he approached. "I need a word."

Tristan nodded at once and got to his feet, Nymeria and Shield falling into line at his ankles. He hadn't been sure about bringing Nymeria as well, but the wolf was vicious, and he didn't want to trust it without it's mistress in Winterfell, Lady was at least calm most of the time. But Shield could tame Nymeria, and keep her in check, so Tristan kept Nymeria with him. It would now be a part of his battle plan, and Tristan had a key role to play as well. "What is it Robb?" He asked when they were a safe distance away.

"When mother get's us across the river," he said without preamble, he owed his brother enough to not try to coat his orders with honey. "I intend to split the army in two," he continued.

"You do?" Tristan asked. "Why?"

Robb just had to confirm a few things before he answered. "You said that you couldn't match Jaime Lannister?" He asked again, he knew it, but he wanted Tristan's words.

His brother grimaced, his hands clenching. "No," he said. "In some years, maybe, but now... there's no one in the North who can match him. If we were to meet in single combat, I would die."

Robb cursed. Tristan was always the better swordsman of the two. Mother had said that he had been born with one in his hand, until he was six, he had believed that.

"I will be leading the horse, most of it, at least, against Jaime Lannister and his siege at Riverrun, uncle Brynden believes that we should be able to dismantle his forces in good order," Robb told him.

Tristan grinned and clapped his shoulder. "Together, fighting as one, that's how we're meant to be Robb. Two halves of a whole."

"No," Robb said, looking his brother directly in his steel grey eyes. "We won't be going together this time."

Tristan's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

Robb took his shoulder. "You will lead the host of footmen down the Kingsroad and engage Tywin Lannister."

"You... you want _me_ to engage Tywin Lannister in battle? Robb, that's not my place."

"It is," Robb said. "We need to hold Tywin Lannister so he can't support his son. As long as there is a host on the Kingsroad, he cannot simply abandon his position, that would leave the door to King's Landing wide open for it."

"But if he senses a feint-" Tristan began.

"It won't make a difference, but he could warn Jaime, which is why I need you to march, you can make him believe that I am marching on him and him alone."

"How?" Tristan asked.

Robb gestured at Nymeria and Shield. "The Lannisters know that we Starks have one wolf each. If you ride with them at your side at the head of the column, then they will believe that we are both coming for him."

"Robb," Tristan implored him. "I can't defeat Tywin Lannister."

"You don't have to," Robb reassured him. "You just have to make him think that I am coming for him. Then you can break and retreat back for the Causeway."

"Robb, from the Ruby Ford to the Causeway is days' travel, longer as an army."

"I'm not going to lie, Tristan," Robb said. "I'm asking a lot, I know that, just be cautious, don't let Tywin Lannister destroy the army I'm giving you, that's all I need from you."

"And to be a distraction for you," Tristan pointed out.

"You'll be that simply by going," he reminded his brother. "I love you, and if you insist now that you don't want to do this, then I'll permit you to come with me. But it would be safer for our family, for us all, if we were to split up. Put all your eggs in one basket..." He began.

"And it is only easier for a man to rob you," he finished, smiling at their father's teachings. He looked Robb in the eye, and Robb saw the determination. Tristan may know his limits, but this was his challenge, he wouldn't back down. How could he look Robb in the eye if he had taken the safer option. "Okay brother," he said. "I'll go, but there are certain conditions."

Robb nodded. "What conditions?"

Tristan stroked his beard. "If I'm going to march against Tywin Lannister, I'm going to need cunning, and archers at my back."

"You'll have archers," Robb reminded him. He would have all of the footmen, archers and all.

"No," Tristan said. "I need the best archers, and as for cunning, footmen aren't cunning or cold, both of which I need. If I'm marching against Tywin Lannister, I need Theon... and Roose Bolton."

He wasn't surprised by the second, Lord Bolton had him for a year, and if he wanted cold, he couldn"t do better from the North. But Theon... he'd been planning to keep Theon with him. _I need Tristan to march on Tywin. If Theon can do that..._ it would also mean an extra pair of trusted eyes watching over his twin. "Lord Bolton will go without complaint, I suspect," he told Tristan. "Let me speak to Theon."

"Of course," he replied with a grin. "Prove this superior leadership you've told me so much about."

"Arse."

He found Theon twirling an arrow in his fingers as he japed with Owen Norrey and Hugo Stout. "Theon, a word."

"On my way," he sidled over lazily. "You called, my lord?"

"I did," he said. "Listen, Theon, I have a task for you on the march."

"A task?" He asked, bemused.

Robb nodded. Theon had always appreciated a little directness. "Yes, if all goes well with the crossing, I intend to send Tristan down to confront Tywin Lannister with the foot while I ride for Riverrun to relieve it from Jaime Lannister."

Genuine shock lit up Theon's face like a beacon. How long had it been since Robb had seen that? "Is that wise, Tristan is many things, but a match for Tywin Lannister in open battle, no."

"He'll have Lord Bolton with him, and others to advise him. I hope he'll have you as well."

"Me?"

Robb nodded. "He would be travelling with Daryn and Domeric, but their fathers requested that they join my personal guard, and Tristan supported it as well. But you, Theon, you I trust, and you are possibly the best archer in the north. I would have you helping him, and watching over him."

"Does he need that?"

"Just stop him being an idiot."

"So keep Tristan alive and stop him being Tristan, that's all you ask?" Theon grinned.

"Theon," Robb replied, fighting to keep his own smile down. He needed Theon to be serious now. "Please. I need you to do this. Help Tristan, keep him alive, command his archers in the battle to come, if there is to be one. Please."

Theon drummed his arrow on his knee in thought. "I'd hoped to join you against the Kingslayer, given the choice that would still be my preference. But if the little cub needs me to keep him safe, I'll do it."

"Just don't call him cub, or pup," Robb said, smiling, Tristan had his choices, and he had someone he could trust watching his brother.

"I'll do my best," Theon replied, clapping him on the arm. "Shall I tell him, or shall you?"

"I'll do it," Robb confirmed. Part of him had hoped that Theon would refuse, then he would have an excuse to bring Tristan with him. But this was as it should be. They would be together when they marched on King's Landing at the head of a combined army from the north and Riverlands. They would still save father together.

If they got through the Twins, that is, if not, they'd all be marching on Tywin anyway. It was in his mother's hands now.


	26. Book 1 Shireen IV

_Shadespace: Well I don't know what you expect Tristan to do about that. If Robb wants to cross the river, he'll have to pay the price. It may be totally disproportionate, but all the cards are in Frey's hands, and he knows that._

* * *

" _I will never surrender,  
I fight for lord and land,  
I face a thousand foes  
And I will make my stand."_

Shireen hummed out the next part of the song as she worked on her stitches in her chambers. Aeriel was steadily improving her own talents in the art, she seemed to have a knack for it, among other things. If she had been highborn, she would have been the perfect handmaiden. She glanced out the window at the harbour down below the castle.

The fleet was a hive of activity, even from here she could see sailors scrambling over ships, and guardsmen patrolling the docks. Barrels were being loaded and unloaded as leaky crates and container were replaced with those of fresh wood. Her brother was down there somewhere, helping their father prepare for the war to come. She wished she could be with him but, although she knew her sums well enough, she had little knowledge of ships, sailors and soldiers, so she was here, perfecting the arts that she had to learn.

" _The Stranger glides down,  
Come to take his own,  
But together we must fight,  
And end this war as one." _

She repeated the chorus as she put the final stitches to her star. It was not her best work, she would have to try harder, to make sure it was perfect before she tried to add one to her brother's cloak and armour, so that the Seven might guide him as he entered battle, he would have every shield she could give him.

" _In light I'll fight in field and keep,  
At night I'll dream in sleep,  
I swore my oath on bended knee  
An oath that I will keep."_

"Finished!" She looked up at Aeriel who was holding a piece of cloth up proudly.

She stopped singing her tune and approached her handmaiden. The crown was clear and defined on the yellow cloth. "Very good," she replied, smiling at her. "I'm very impressed."

"Thank you," she said, blushing at the compliment. Shireen shook her head lightly at the reaction. Honestly, the girl would find herself with more than a few male admirers if the face of innocence was what she put to the world. Men and knights loved the innocent, the pure, and Aeriel exuded it from every pore. "How is your brother?" She asked suddenly.

"Lyonel?" She asked surprised. "I-I don't know," she replied. "He's been... busy."

"I think you should see him today," she said. "You said he was the most important person to you. You should see him."

He was the most important person. It was true. "Perhaps," she said. "If he needs to sleep though, I must let him. He has important duties now."

()()()

She met her brother in Dragonstone's courtyard. She had put aside her dress and was now wearing her leather armour and clutched her bow in her hand. She wrapped herself around him tightly. "Shireen," he asked dumbly, "what is it, is something wrong?"

"You always assume the worst, brother," she replied, pulling away and smiling up at him. "Why must something be wrong for me to want to see you?"

He shook his head and pulled her back in. "You're right, as always. It's good to see you again, it feel like it's been too long since we talked."

She nodded. "It has, and that's why we're doing this," he held up her bow. "We haven't tested ourselves against each other or several moons now. I want to see how I've improved."

Lyonel glanced at her bow. "I don't have my bow," he said. She pointed back at the archer butts where she had placed it and a dozen arrows.

"Like I'd let you off that easily," she teased, her heart warming when Lyonel's lips curled into a small, weary smile.

They approached their arrows, Lyonel taking a long time to ready his body, longer than it normally took him. But he did still end with the perfect archer's form. "Three for three?" She asked him.

He nodded slowly, then shook himself. "Yes," he replied. "Shall I go first?"

"By all means," she said.

Her brother took an arrow up and calmly notched it to his bow. He pulled the string to his cheek and released, letting the arrow soar through the air and plunge into the target. Calmly, with no rush, he took up his next arrow and repeated the process twice more.

Shireen took up her first arrow. A glance told her that her brother had a good spread, all arrows quite near the centre. However, as she was about to pull her bow back, a thunk made her look up. Lyonel had shot a fourth arrow into the target. "Lyonel?" She asked, making him look over at her, eyebrow raised. She held up three fingers. "Three for three," she reminded him.

He looked between her and his target with four arrows planted in it. "Did we not say four for four?" He asked her, confused. She shook her head. "I...I'm sorry," he made a move for the target to take his last arrow out. "I thought-"

"It's okay," she said, rushing over and taking his arm lightly. "Lyonel, it doesn't matter, we'll do four for four, it's okay."

"Thank you," he replied.

She smiled as she returned to her arrows and retook her stance. Her spread was about the same as Lyonel's was, maybe a little closer to the target but she'd have to wait until the end to see for sure. "You're up, brother."

He didn't reply with his voice, only fixing his next arrow to his bow. Slower than last time he released his next four arrows and they plunged like daggers into the target. This spread was wider than the first. They were all still within the ring, but two of them were closer to the edge than Lyonel normally was, far closer.

She replied with four arrows of her own. This time there was no mistaking it. Her arrows were definitely closer to the centre ring than her brother's. It had been years since this had been the case. Lyonel was the better archer, he always had been.

She ran her fingers over the smooth dragonbone, thinking about their past competitions, and how she had striven so hard to be able to match him, until she realised that she never truly would. Lyonel was better than her, a natural genius with the bow, and he had more time to train, he was expected to learn martial activities, she had to fit her archery around her work with the needle, her voice and other feminine activities. Not that she minded. She was a woman, Lyonel was a man, they both had their places. Besides, once she was married to some lord, be that Willas Tyrell or another, she would likely keep her bow as only a reminder of Lyonel, without whom there was no reason to use it. It allowed her to spend time with her brother, but if he wasn't there, then what would be the point.

She noticed her brother was not shooting any more arrows and glanced at the target, only three new arrows were there, so he must have been lining up his fourth arrow. She waited, but nothing came so she glanced at Lyonel. He was rubbing his forehead, clearly weary, and had no more arrows left. "Did I not give you enough arrows?" She asked, certain that she had given him twelve.

"You did," he replied quietly. "The last one... I missed."

"You... missed?" She asked. She must have misheard. "But... you never miss."

"I know I never miss, Shireen!" He yelled. "But it happened." He began stomping towards the target but his left foot got caught on his right and he fell to the stone ground, crying out in pain.

"Lyonel!" She gasped, discarding her bow and rushing over to him, she fell to her knees beside him and helped him to his feet. "I'm here, it's okay."

"Let go," he grunted, rubbing his left arm to ease the pain.

"No," she replied stubbornly. "We're getting you back into the castle." She retrieved their bows then helped Lyonel to his feet.

"The arrows," he muttered.

She shook her head. "Leave them. We can get them tomorrow." She looked into his eyes and saw they were fluttering near closing. "You need to sleep. Why didn't you say you were tired, I would have understood?"

"I know but... I don't sleep... not lately," he said. "I just lie awake in bed, fretting about the war... father... or half a hundred other things."

"Not tonight," she replied firmly. "You are getting to sleep tonight, come on." She laced her arm through his, that way she could support him without him looking weak, or causing anyone to worry about him.

They managed to get into his room with no suspicious looks from the people they passed. Lyonel not being in armour made things easier, since she could just help him out of his tunic and into bed without having to bother with buckles and straps.

He got in and she leant down to give him a goodnight kiss. As she turned to return to her own chambers, she felt her brother grip her wrist. "Can you stay?" He asked her. "Just until..."

She nodded. "Of course." She pulled of her leather armour, and slipped under the covers in her softer under armour. She pulled him into her, resting his head on her shoulder. "What makes you worry so much?" She asked. Maybe if he spoke about it, he might be able to sleep tonight.

"Everything," he whispered. "Father has to fight all of the rest of Westeros at this rate. Uncle is dead and now a false king sits the throne, a false king with the trappings of legitimacy and the backing of Lord Tywin Lannister. He has the fleet, but not much else. Every day there are a hundred new problems with the ships that I must deal with and the sellswords want their payment. When father takes the throne he'll have to hold it, and live with the knowledge that his heir is afflicted with greyscale. He is not loved and neither will I be. How can father do it, he still thinks it is possible, how, with so few men and no allies, how can we hope to defeat all of those who will fight for Joffrey called-Baratheon under the belief that he is the true king?"

"Shhh," she said, pressing a kiss to her brother's hair. "Lyonel, you are still thinking as the son of a lord. Father is the rightful king, and that is what you need to start thinking like, the son of a king." He looked up at her. "This war will demand much from you and father, much from us all. But you must look beyond that. Where you must fight you fight, where you must talk you talk and where you must retreat you retreat. And for the good of this realm, you must win. You must take King's Landing and help father claim the throne that is rightfully his." She slid down until she was looking her brother right in the eyes, lacing the fingers of her right hand with his right and her left hand with his left, squeezing. "Then, when the war is won, you're going to come home, you will come back to me, and be my brother again."

"I am your brother," he whispered, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead to hers. "I will always be your brother."

"And I am your sister," she whispered back. "I will always be there for you, I promise."

"Thank you," his voice tailed off and Shireen opened her eyes. Lyonel was asleep, his chest rising and falling slowly, calmly. Gently, she unlaced their fingers and guided him to his back, tucking him in under the covers. She half wanted to lie down there, to put her head on his shoulder and be there with him through the night, to calm him if he awoke and help him sleep again. But that would be improper, he was her brother. So she kissed him between the eyes and slipped out from the bed, gathering her armour and bow before blowing out the candles and leaving Lyonel to his dreams.


	27. Book 1 Tristan VI

_BLACK-OP1 – It's something that's been missing, I feel. Most of the good and healthy sibling relationships are split up in the canon, be that Robb and Jon or Tyrion and Jaime, so to have one on screen long term is great fun to write. Also they have a deeper connection than most siblings in that they are both affected by greyscale, so they have something that no-one else has which brings them closer still. Let's just hope it stays that way._

* * *

Shield and Nymeria padded like the beasts of war they were ahead of his column of seventeen thousand men, of whom all but five hundred were afoot, those five hundred being the retinues of the lords who came with him. The feet were slamming into the ground like a thousand different hammers, out of synch with each other and droning instead of beating a rhythm. He shook his head. Robb needed him to battle with these men at his command. At his right was Theon, his cocksure smirk plastered across his features, he had seemed surprisingly eager to come with him, Tristan had been sure that he'd object to having to march with the rabble, but he was taking it in his stride. Lord Bolton was at his left, his pale face and eyes not giving anything away. He had wanted Domeric too, and Daryn, but their fathers had sent them with Robb, to be part of his personal guard and build a rapport with their future lord.

Unfortunately, lords rarely kept outriders as their retinues, retinues were meant to look impressive and protect the lord. The few outriders he had were not enough to keep a careful watch over the entire southern approach. If Lord Tywin kept to the Kingsroad, he was more than three days away, if not, he could be less than half a day, Tristan had no way of knowing. He had wanted to march south fast, keep a wide net to locate Lord Tywin's force, and then focus in on that. But Lord Bolton had advised against that. He had instead advocated for a cautious approach, stopping every few days to allow the army a break from their march. He didn't like it, but this was why he had asked for Lord Bolton to come with him in the first place.

They came to camp not much further down the fork, and Tristan gave his arms and armour over to Elmar, the Frey who was to marry Arya, and whom he had taken as his squire, to prepare him for that if nothing else. "How are you doing, Elmar?" He asked the eleven year old, who was scrubbing away at his mail.

"Well, my Lord," he said, stopping scrubbing for a moment. "I look forward to seeing you in battle."

Tristan grinned. "You won't be disappointed, I can promise that much." He took up his bastard sword and gave it some practice swings, the metal simply an extension of his wrist as it hissed through the air, biting like a wolf's fangs, snapping for prey and thirsty for blood. "Those Lannister knights won't know what hit them."

Elmar giggled like the boy he was. Tristan sheathed his sword. "Now, undress me," he said. "I wish to sleep before the march tomorrow."

As he lay down, he absently wondered what Shield and Nymeria were doing. The wolves seemed to need far less sleep than men, for he often called them come the morning and they would slink into the tent, jaws bloody with some kill they had made in the night.

()()()

The darkness meant nothing to him or his sister, his littermate. Man relied too much on it's eyes, but the two of them could find their way through the sounds or smells that reached them. They bounded along the river, slaking their thirst when they needed to before lowering their noses to the ground and finding what his master could never find. Prey.

They found the three men resting by a tree. His master's men would have missed them, for they were in the dark, no fires lighting their way, but he could smell them.

He approached, with his sister, her anger and distress at being parted from her mistress clear. But they would find the way. He helped her, they slaked their thirst on the enemy and his litter mate stayed with them without him having to fight her down to submission. Two of the men were sleeping like the dead, a third keeping watch, his breathing fearful and fast, but nothing next to that of the horses, the beasts felt them, kicking about and snorting in their horrible voices of fear.

The man was shaking his friends. "Tom! Will!" He said in a voice of dark and quiet fear. "Somthing's spookin' the horses."

His low growl of humour would have alerted them if it wasn't for the horses, frightened at their scent. He slunk around, keeping low to the ground so that the man-things didn't see him. When he got close to one of the ropes imprisoning the beast, he opened his jaws. Splinters and toughness filled his mouth as he worked his fangs through the rope, tearing at it as he did so. Pulling with his jaw, he ripped though the chain of tasteless toughness and the snorting fearful beast bolted into the shadows. "Come back!" The men called stumbling around as one of them fumbled with a stick, trying to bring fire, the bane of forest and beast, to bear. He leapt at him, the taste of blood and sweet muscle greeting him as he ripped flesh from the man, who tried to call, but only spat up more of the red sauce for his pleasure. He bounded into the shadow before the other men could attack him, and heard the death cries of the second as his sister did their master's work.

He could tell that his sister wanted to stalk the last one, to make him feel fear and stain his legs with piss. But there was no need, so he started without her, sinking his fangs into his leg and, her fun denied, his sister leapt in as well.

They could have let the last horse go, but man things, though often succulent, only had a few good bites in them before you were left with tough muscle and bone. They killed their prey quickly and lowered their heads to the carcass, feasting on the bloody meat in victory before they returned to the camp.

()()()

He awoke to the taste of blood and hard meat in his mouth. Retching at the taste he stuck his fingers in his mouth, trying to see if he had bitten his tongue in his sleep, it didn't seem like it, but something tasted bloody. It must have been his imagination, when he pulled his fingers out they were covered in a clear sheen of saliva, but there was no blood. He wiped them off on his furs and drank some water to wash out his mouth, sloshing the first mouthful around before spitting it onto the floor and drinking the second and third deeply.

"My Lord," Elmar said, concerned, looking at him. "Are you... alright?"

Tristan shook his head to clear it. "What?" He asked. "Yes, fine, why?"

"You were... growling, in the night."

"Growling?"

Elmar nodded. "Like a dog... an angry dog."

A dog? Why would he growl in his sleep? He shook his head again, it didn't matter, dreams were dreams, the real world was what mattered. "It doesn't matter," he said to the young Frey. "I'm fine, more than fine. Now get my clothes and armour. We are marching again today.

Outside his tent, Shield was stirring, his eye blinking and looking up at him, golden and piercing. Shield nuzzled his litter-mate awake and Nymeria stubbornly snapped at the offending muzzle, before more nudges from her brother made her wake up properly.

"If only everyone could get up so quickly," he muttered.

They took another march that day, making it more than twenty miles. It had been his own idea to bring rafts and riverboats from the twins, keeping their supplies on the river to unburden the army. He knew from the march down from Winterfell that it was the supply train that kept armies slowed down. Lord Bolton had agreed that it would allow them a faster retreat without losing the baggage to the enemy. He would need that. There was no way he could engage Tywin in full battle with his depleted host and emerge the victor, not that he saw. He just had to be loud, boastful and the centre of attention. _Just be myself then_ , he thought as the army set down to rest.

But Lord Bolton thought differently. "To simply sit back and act loud will not work, not against Tywin Lannister, not against anyone. A brash man will come to attack you, a cautious man will see that you are a cover for someone else."

"I agree with Lord Bolton," Lord Hornwood said, his bushy moustache and broad shoulders heavily set and brooding as they stood on the riverbank, under the shade of a large oak tree, watching their boats be pulled in. "We must keep moving towards Lord Tywin at the very least, do him the courtesy of battle, or he'll know to look for the fight elsewhere."

"The Ruby Ford would be ideal to hold him, but it's too far south, too close to Riverrun," Roose added, his soft spoken voice cutting like a dagger. "We must needs face him further north, that will likely be achieved by our march alone." Roose had explained that to him already. Tywin was in an uncertain position, with the Vale to the east and the northmen to the north. If he linked up with the knights of the Vale, he could destroy Tywin's host with greater numbers. Tywin would know this, and seek to destroy us individually. If he believed that both he and Robb were leading the whole Northern host to face him, he would move to destroy it in one swoop so he might face the possible Vale assault unhindered.

"But I can't beat him," it irked him that he had to admit it, but there's no use in calling himself something he wasn't.

Roose tutted. "You do not see the bigger picture my lord, our victory over Tywin Lannister will not come from destroying his host in glorious battle. That is how stories are told, but not wars fought. We defeat Tywin if we can make him face us rather than march on your brother. We need only hold him a little while."

"Robb will be descending on Riverrun as we speak," Tristan admitted. He was travelling by horse, so may even now be destroying Jaime's host. But Lord Bolton was right. This was going to come to battle. And he had to decide how to go about it. "We won't be able to keep the secret for long if we should engage Tywin directly," Tristan muttered. "Everyone in the army knows that Robb took the horse and went the other way. They won't spare the footmen, but the lordlings know, the Lannisters will know the truth if any of them get captured."

"Perhaps we should let them," Roose Bolton replied coolly.

"Let the Lannisters capture our fellows willingly, have you gone mad, Bolton?" Lord Halys demanded, his face expressing the indignity. Tristan felt uneasy. He had never had Robb's training, but he knew that lords looked after their men, letting them get captured seemed... wrong.

But Lord Bolton, as ever, was not perturbed by outbursts, he never had been at the Dreadfort, and he wasn't now. "Lord Tywin values Jaime. He was greatly angered when Aerys stole him as his heir, and in the place of Ser Jaime he's received an adventurous irresponsible boy and a dwarf. If Tywin learns that Jaime is in danger, in all likelihood, he"ll break off any assault and pursuit of us to move to save him."

"Or waver, and perhaps give us an opening," he finished, looking for acceptance in the pale, lineless face.

It was granted with a nod. "Indeed, if Tywin were to falter, or be driven into a sudden urge to break us swiftly, he may make a mistake, one we can exploit, or if we are already retreating, he'll give less thought to pursuit, more to his son."

"There are... certain merits to that," Lord Hornwood agreed reluctantly. "But if he's in the process of destroying our host, he won't break off. If we let Tywin know that Robb is riding for ser Jaime in the intent of making him break off his assault here, there can be no certainty to our defeat."

"There's another problem," Tristan said. "We are here to prevent Tywin marching to Jaime's aid, it rather defeats the purpose of our march if we let him know that Robb is moving that way."

"Which is why we pull Tywin north to fight us," Roose reminded him, and Tristan chided himself for not remembering that part already. _Gods Robb has put me in entirely the wrong position._ Being a swordsman was easy, failure was your own fault, nearly every time, but you were the only one affected. If he were to fight Jaime Lannister one on one, he would likely lose, but at least it wouldn't hurt Robb directly, but if he lost Robb his army, or give Tywin time to save Jaime, then he'd have utterly failed.

He paused to let a line of horsemen pass them up the bank. "So we draw Tywin north, meet him in battle and retreat, making sure he doesn't have the means to utterly destroy us," he said, just to confirm that was the general plan they were working from.

Both Hornwood and Bolton nodded.

"Right, well then," he said, slumping down. "It seems to me that the best way to do that is a disruption on Tywin's rear and camp. After all, an army marches on it's stomach, an attack on his camp could ravage him if we were able to torch his supplies."

"The camp would be behind his lines. You have a plan?" Roose asked, mildly curious.

He nodded. "Possibly. Bring me Theon, I'll need him if it's going to work."


	28. Book 1 Loren V

"The scouts are tracking the Starks further down the Fork, as you commanded, Lord," one of his outriders said. Loren nodded, his mail chinking as he drew his fingers over the map.

"Good," he muttered. His father had commanded him to use his scouts to draw the wolves into the jaws of the lion. He had told his father that that was a gross misuse of outriders, he could gather far more information on the Starks, their numbers and composition, if they weren't aware that they were being watched. But the mighty Tywin Lannister would hear nothing of that, his plan would be followed to the letter. But Lord Tywin didn't know everything, and Loren would command his outriders in the way that best took advantage of their abilities. "How far are they from here?"

The scout pointed on the map. "Here, Lord."

He nodded, that was only two days north of here, and he was a day's march away from his father. "Send out riders and bring the furthest scouts back, we'll be giving battle soon, I suspect. Is Ser Addam watching over the Stark advance?"

"Aye, m"lord," the scout said.

Loren nodded and beckoned Tyland over with their horses. He pulled himself up into the saddle. "Call back those scouts," he reminded his man, before putting his spurs to his courser and riding for the approaching Stark host.

()()()

"I haven't seen much out of the ordinary," Ser Addam informed him. They were atop a small hill a few miles from the cloud of dust that indicated the Stark host's presence. "They march, sometimes they stop to rest for a day, then they march again. Though they seem to be picking up the pace more recently."

Loren nodded. "Have you got a count of their numbers?"

"Fewer than our own," Ser Addam confirmed. "Although they have far fewer horse than I would have expected."

"But the wolves are still there?"

Addam nodded. "Always at the head, under the largest Stark banner.

"Both wolves mean both Starks," he said. "But still, this marching order, they truly stop to rest?"

"They do," Addam said. "I was surprised as well. If the father were leading them then I wouldn't be, but they show restraint for boys."

Loren knew that well enough. To have the discipline to halt and rest your troops, prevent them from getting weary and keeping order. It took a skilled commander. "What of Stark's bannermen?" He asked Ser Addam. "Could one of them be advising?"

"I couldn't say that for sure," he said. "But Lord Bolton's banners are first in march behind the Starks."

His father would know more about Lord Bolton to judge, Loren knew only that he had advised Robert to slit Barristan Selmy's throat after the Trident. A cold man it seemed, but what more was there? "Is there anything else?" He asked.

Ser Addam shook his head.

"Then I am ordering the Outriders to pull back," he said. Our duty now is to prevent the Starks from sneaking a march on us, keep their own riders away. I must report to my lord father, I leave it to you to blind the Starks at every opportunity before the battle."

"They'll see nothing," Addam promised.

"Remember," Loren said. "They are outriders, not knights, do not push them too hard, we'll need them for the whole campaign, especially if the Vale comes to aid the Riverlands as well."

"I won't overstep, my lord," he said. "I promise."

Loren nodded and turned his horse. "Then make sure you return to participate in the battle, I need as many knights as possible beside me."

"I look forward to it," Addam said. "I will test my steel beside yours, my lord."

()()()

Lord Tywin Lannister was ready and waiting in his command tent. "The Starks will be here soon, but it doesn't matter. No sword is strong until it has been tempered. The Stark twins no doubt like the sound of warhorns and the sight of fluttering banners, but as soon as they understand what war truly is, they'll run back to Winterfell with their tails between their legs."

Loren spoke up. "I'm not so sure, father," he said. His father in law glanced at him with raised eyebrows; Lord Crakehall and Uncle Kevan both looked surprised that he had spoken up. "The manner of Stark's march on us, the tightness of his formation, it all seems to me that they know what they're doing, or are being advised by someone that is."

"Stark is a child, if he listens to his Bannermen it is only a courtesy, he'll seek to take full control again as soon as battle is met." His father never missed a beat, that much could be said about him.

"I would not say that," Loren replied again. "The march is difficult to maintain, it requires patience. From the layout of their march, I believe that Lord Bolton is heavily advising the Starks."

"Lord Bolton is a cold man, he does not inspire loyalty or love," Kevan pointed out in defence of his lord brother.

Lord Tywin nodded. "He may be advising the march, but the Starks will commit to battle, of that I am certain. And we shall march to face him. What are his numbers?"

Loren clenched his fist. Could his father not listen to anything he had to say? Ever. If Jaime had said it his lion's ears would perk up at once, but no, because it was Loren the Leaver, Loren the other Lannister, his word meant nothing. Not for the first time he found himself wishing he was back with the Golden Company, where men of value treated his word with the respect it deserved. "Fewer than our own," he repeated Ser Addam's words to his father. He was about to bring up the small number of horsemen with the Northern host. But why should he bother; Lord Tywin would choke it down to ineptitude on the part of the Starks. Loren kept his mouth shut and slumped back into his chair. They would see when battle was joined what these Starks were made of.

The tent flap opened and the dwarf Lannister entered. Tyrion waddled to his seat and sat down. "My Lords," he said. "Apologies for my lateness." Loren gritted his teeth when Tyrion took a cup of wine. Why could his brother act as such? "What news do we have?"

"Your wildlings have been armed," his father in law said with a bite to his sour tone. "I hope they prove worth the steel."

"My ferocious warriors, I believe they'll prove their worth on the battlefield," Tyrion smiled and drank, plucking a sausage from a platter and slapping it into his overlarge mouth.

"They'll get their chance," Lord Tywin replied coolly, "they will be in the vanguard. As will you."

He choked on his own drink. He couldn't have heard correctly. His father was granting command of the vanguard to the _imp_! "I fear I have no experience of such command, father," Tyrion replied earnestly.

"Command?" Lord Tywin queried. "Ser Gregor will have the command, you will serve under him."

Loren relaxed his grip a little, but still he felt warmth trickling down his hand. He brought his palm to his face and sucked the blood his nails had drawn into his mouth. "And what of I, father?" He asked.

Lord Tywin scrutinised him intently, his green-gold eyes looking into Loren's own. "You shall command the right flank," he said before sitting back.

 _A command at least,_ he thought as he sat back, brooding.

He let the conversation wash over him at that point, only interrupting when someone asked it of him.

He was only asked if he would like another glass of wine.

()()()

From then on he rode not in mail, but in his full suit of crimson and gold armour, a force of knights around his person. In the heat of midday sun some four days later, a rider rushed to the head of the column. One of his outriders. He spurred himself forward to join his father. "My Lord," he said, bowing at the waist. "The Stark host is ahead, they are forming up into battle lines." Loren looked ahead, sure enough the dust being kicked up was reminiscent of an army, and he could see what looked to be banners and men rushing about.

"Father," he urged. "Let me take my knights, ride ahead, we can break them before they are ready."

"Or lose our horse," Lord Tywin replied calmly. "No, if the Stark boys want a battle I will not deny them. Kevan, have the drummers beat assembly. Loren, assemble your flank."

Loren bit back a retort and wheeled his horse. "Ser Addam!" He called to the knight who had joined him two days ago. "Bring the banner." As the drums of battle assembly began to sound, Ser Addam, nodded and ordered the banner bearer to bring himself to them and lead the right so the men on the right would know where to gather.

His force assembled far more than the rest. His father may not have given him the vanguard, but he had given him the hard heart of the Lannister strength. Four thousand knights and other heavy horse were to assemble on him to be the mailed right gauntlet of the host. Since he didn't have to deal with partially drilled levies, his flank was lined up and assembled far more quickly than the others.

The battlefield was relatively flat. With the river holding the left flank and only some small hills and shrubs to their rear, a small copse of hedgerows and shrubs covered the Northern left flank, the flank he was facing. He looked to the left. His father's centre was commanded, predictably, by Kevan, most of the army's foot gathered in one place. Pikemen were forming squares in the front line and two wings of archers were calmly stringing their bows behind them, behind them spearmen, swordsmen and more were forming a battle line, all commanded by Ser Kevan, who was surrounded by three hundred knights. Also fluttering around his uncle were the banners of Lord Lefford, Lydden and Serrett, and their sworn retainers would also be there.

His father, as was his want, had gathered the reserve about himself, a huge force, five thousand strong, half mounted half afoot, assembled atop the small hills. From there his father could better oversee the battle, and know where best to deploy his men.

Meanwhile the left flank was another flank of horsemen. He saw Clegane's banner and Clegane himself gathering this force around him. But where the men Loren had under him were a mailed fist, The Mountain's force was made of the dregs of the west, sellswords, freeriders and a few less scrupulous knights, and of course, Tyrion's clansmen.

He looked to the Stark host. A thick line of infantrymen, under the banners of axes, moose, suns and mermen gathered. He also saw the twin towers of Frey, so much for his father's prediction that Lord Frey would not commit to the battle. He wondered what his father was thinking atop his hill, for he had certainly seen those banners. Everywhere along the line, the grey Stark Direwolf flapped in the breeze. He narrowed his eyes and scanned the front, trying to eye the actual wolves amongst the banners, but he couldn't see them. He spotted flayed men banners twisting in a macarbre dance behind the Stark main line. He saw a few horsemen in the rear, when arrayed amongst their footmen, they seemed even fewer in number.

He waited for the advance. He knew his part. Clegane would charge, break, and rout, the Starks would pour in and father would turn them and crush them against the river. At least that was his father's plan. But based on their march, he wondered if the Starks would risk it. They didn't seem to be advancing, which went against his father's predictions.

Then he heard the drum beat. It wasn't the drum beat signalling for the advance to begin. It was a heavy drum beat, deeper and louder than any drum could carry. The Stark foot were beating it out, shields and spear buts slamming into the ground in concert. He smirked. They weren't moving, they were standing their ground, daring the Lannisters to come to them. Well they would meet that challenge. Sure enough, the drums sounded and the Lannister line began to advance.

His men kept in line with the centre, their horses snorting, the hardened destriers eager to charge the enemy. The sounding of trumpets made him look left to see Clegane's vanguard tear forwards and smash into the line northern infantry, which shuddered, bent, and held. As Clegane's vanguard was bogged down and began to turn and rout, the first arrows fired at the northern foot who held.

But despite this, the northern line didn't charge the broke left, or break under the arrow fire. They were showing more discipline than his father expected, and more indecision than he had intended.

But Ser Kevan wouldn't be stopped. He simply ordered his own advance. If the northerners wouldn't follow Lord Tywin's plan, then they would be smashed where they stood. He held his own men back. He wouldn't make Clegane's mistake. He would wait for the right moment before charging a solid infantry line. The sounds of battle met him as the pikes met the northern shield and the infantry lines began hacking at each other. He held up his hand to halt his men entirely. Something was wrong here. What was Stark's plan? Hold until he was slowly hacked apart.

Then he saw his chance. The northern left was engaged, and he ordered the advance. His men would charge, circle the line in the flank and roll it up against the river. He drew his sword and led the charge. His horse pounded between his legs, and time seemed to slow. Then screams made him look to his right and his blood ran cold. Northern horsemen charged from the bushes and hedgerows and were closing on his right flank. Over their head a great Stark banner fluttered in the breeze. "Turn, he screamed into the din of battle and war. He spun his sword over his head, and his men, seeing this, began to wheel their horses to face the Stark charge.

But they were too slow. Northern lances lowered as they entered the last ten metres. But they didn't stop lowering and, with the force of a hammer blow, the northern lances took his knights in their mounts. Horses screamed as they fell dead, their riders scrabbling to not get crushed by them. Lances punched through bridle and saddles and barding to slay the beast beneath it. Pulling on his reign he was able to avoid the lance of one knight that came charging at him. He smashed his sword on their head as they passed, but it didn't stop the knight. Then he saw the beasts.

Bounding amidst the dead and scattered horses were the two great wolves. Knights pulled their mounts out of the way of their powerful, snapping jaws and those that didn't were carried away as the mounts underneath them feared the beasts too much, at least one of his men was thrown as the wolf snarled beneath his horse.

Another knight came at him, this one in the livery of Frey. He raised his sword and they sparked of each other. This was never his forte, and he struggled to defend against the rain of ferocious attacks being dealt against him. But in a flash it was over. Another lance appeared out of nowhere and took the northerner in the breastplate, smashing him off his horse, and more knights of Lannister swarmed them to claim the capture. The knight who had saved him rode up to him and raised his visor. It was Ser Addam. More knights were piling in now, and the Lannister numbers were beginning to tell, he saw other northerners falling under blows of southron knights. The northmen seemed to recognise this as well. They peeled off and broke, riding back for the hedgerows.

"Regroup!" He roared. "Form up again. We must finish our charge!" The knights without horses saw to the prisoners taken on the field. Those with gathered to him again. The northern foot and his uncles men were locked together, men dying on both sides and the northern right, having routed the vanguard, were curling around them; one of Kevan's squares of pikemen was broken, with northern axemen and swordsmen under a moose banner hacked them apart. Where was his father? He should have brought the reserve up to plug that gap. A glance back saw coiling smoke, twisting like serpents in the air and his father absent from the hill, the few men he could see on it in confusion and chaos.

He cursed, with the reserve gone or busy this was going to be harder; the northern foot, having shattered one of the squares of pikemen could do what they'd wanted and roll up the line. A sudden pain jarred his chest, slamming into him like a fist. The arrow fluttered to the ground but another hit him on the shoulder. "Archers, get back out of range!" His men wheeled and pulled back until the arrows slammed into dirt instead of metal and flesh. His father still wasn't here. "Addam!" His subordinate came over. "Take half the men, seal our left, since father hasn't deigned to join us, we can't let them roll up the line."

The Northmen were still pulling back, one square was in disarray, but the other two were driving back the northern shield wall.

"My Lord!" He turned and saw Ser Gerold racing over. "My Lord, you have to halt the advance!"

"What?" He demanded as the Lannister men swarmed forwards. Men dragged forward a prisoner in the livery of a Frey.

"Tell my lord what you told me!" Gerold demanded, his dirk a the knight's throat.

The Frey knight spat a gob of blood on the ground, more blood leaking from a cut across the forehead. "Lord Robb isn't here. He never was."

Loren took a moment to realise what had just been said. "But... what do you mean!"

The knight laughed at him. "He sent Lord Tristan and Lord Bolton to get you to watch our pretty performance of a march, but Lord Robb crossed the Trident at the twins, and has been riding hard for Riverrun, with ten times the horse you saw here today."

"Fuck!" He roared. "Gerold, go to my uncle, tell him to stop pressing the northmen so hard, I must go see father."

Still the lines fought, Addam's knights met the disorganised northern left and drove them into a heavy retreat, saving his uncle, who sent footmen in to support and seal up the gap. The northmen were pulling back now, reforming around the flayed man of Bolton and fighting a retreat north, their horse screening their left flank, their right anchored to the river and a hail of arrows dissuading others from following.

A glance back told him that their own reserve appeared to be forming atop the hill, as though it had only just awakened to the fact that there was a battle. "Ser Gerold, hold our right but do _not_ advance on the Stark lines." He put his spurs to his horse and raced to the hills being left further and further behind by the battle. "Father," he called, as he and his retinue raced up to his father's position. "Father!"

Lord Twin looked dark and brooding in his helm. Loren saw trails of smoke rising above them from behind, from the camp. The reserve was rushing back into position atop the hill and, the injured being lain down to recover; yet more seemed to be fighting another battle with flames amidst the camp. "What happened?" He asked his father.

"Stark sent a force with rafts across the river. They snuck back across when battle was joined and attacked the baggage train with arrows and fire. I drove them across the river before they did too much damage, but still, it was a minor blow. The matter is dealt with, how goes the battle?"

"Well father, we have the northmen falling back, but we must call a halt."

His father looked just as irked by this as he was by every suggestion that Loren ever gave. "Why?"

"Father, we've been played for fools, we have captured enemy knights and lordlings, and they soon told us the northern ploy. Robb Stark was not here. He sent his brother, advised by Roose Bolton," he paused to see if his father remembered he had hinted at such a thing. But he didn't seem to react. "In the meantime he crossed the Trident at the Twins and now rides, with most of his horse behind him, for Riverrun."

Tyrion arrived at that moment, battered and wounded from the battle, his sellsword alongside him. He recanted what he had just told his father to his brother. Tywin looking as stone as many said his heart was.

He looked out at the battlefield. The Lannisters had stopped their advance and the northmen were still retreating. But they had done their task. They had been delayed, and every hour they had watched this Stark host descend from the Twins was another hour in which the heart of Stark strength was descending on his unsuspecting brother.

He couldn't help but laugh.


	29. Book 1 Robb IV

The gods would make it so that Robb's first battle would be fought in a place with a name like "the Whispering Wood."

They had ridden hard from the Twins. Tristan would do everything in his power to sell the deception that he was marching against Tywin Lannister with full force, but every day was a chance for the Lannisters to recognise his deception and ride to link up with each other.

On the way they had picked up other forces. Lord Jason Mallister, unblooded in the war thus far, had joined him with his strength from Seagard, and along the way they had picked up survivors and scattered men, men who had been part of his uncle's strength at Riverrun before being broken by the Kingslayer. They were coming as a trickle, but the news they brought was of far more importance to Robb. In order to besiege Riverrun properly, Jaime Lannister had divided his camps into three, to block all of the walls of the Tully castle. Brynden had told him that it was a smart move, but it left his camp ready for raiding. Ser Marq Piper and Ser Karyl Vance, friends to Ser Edmure and determined knights, were ravaging Lannister scouts and supply lines. The Kingslayer was losing his patience, and this was what Robb took note of. His father told him that an impatient enemy was the easiest to defeat, and already the Kingslayer had rode out from his siege, hunting down the raiders and storming troublesome holdfasts that remained out of Lannister hands.

"Keep them blind, uncle," he had told Brynden, who had only assured him that it would be done as they continued their march. The Mallister foot marched behind them, but the knights joined them in riding against the Lannister siege forces.

Now Robb was readying himself for battle. Ser Brynden had led a small force of knights and outriders to raid the Lannister camp, flying Tully colours as they did so. The Kingslayer would see more raiders and chase after him, and then Robb would close the jaws of his trap.

"Robb, you give me too many men," his mother insisted. His mother had forty men around her led by Hal Mollen from Winterfell. She had wanted ten men and he had wanted fifty, so neither of them left happy. "I would rather you have the men around you."

"No," he said flatly. "Tristan is on the other side of the Green Fork, I believe that Theon will look after him, but I can't control that now; I can control how many men protect you."

How he wished Tristan was here now, they should be fighting their first battle together, side by side, as the twins they were. But Robb knew this was what was best for father, for Arya and Sansa too. If Tristan were here his mother would likely have twenty men around her. The protection of her two eldest children would be worth too much to her to have any more.

His mother bit back a retort, for which he was grateful, he needed to make check his lines. He looked out over the wood. His men were hidden well. He knew that just across the small stream where he intended to spring his ambush, the men of Mormont, Umber and Mallister were massed, like dogs at the slips. The Greatjon had the command, and was merely waiting for his signal to be unleashed. Meanwhile, the Karstarks were waiting to the north of the stream, the direction the Lannisters would be charging. But although he knew where they were, he couldn't see them any longer. He would meet the Lannister's head on and lock them in place as the Tullys turned and joined their strength to his. Meanwhile he had the other northmen and the Freys around his own person.

Then there were the men who were to join him personally; thirty sons of lords who were to join him as his personal guards in the battle. Domeric Bolton and Daryn Hornwood had been sworn to protect him by Tristan, but they were not the only ones. Following his father's example he had picked the men from a variety of houses. Lord Karstark"s younger sons, Eddard and Torrhen joined him, as did Lord Umber's heir, the Smalljon, Dacey Mormont was the only woman of the group, but swore that mail fitted her far better than a dress. Lord Walder had seen fit to stamp his influence here as well. Including his squire Olyvar, five knights of the Twins were to ride alongside him in battle, and Lord Mallister"s heir Patrek also came from the Riverlands. Not all were young however, Ser Wendel Manderly was a man grown, and Robin Flint was as well, but he had faith in them as well as any of his others.

He heard the far of sound of trumpets and new that the Lannisters were approaching. "I must ride the line," he said to his mother and himself. "Father always says to let your men see you, do not ask them to die for a stranger."

"Then let them see you," his mother replied simply giving him a brief smile.

Robb nodded. They would speak more after the battle. He nodded at his squire. Olyvar may be slightly older than he, but he was a competent one, and slipped his greathelm over his head. After he pulled himself into the saddle, the Frey passed him his shield as well. He gently nudged his horse forwards, riding along the line of horsemen who were to join him in battle. He could feel Grey Wind"s constant presence as a shadow beside him as he silently let his men observe that he would be leading them.

He turned as the sounds of Lannister trumpets got closer and closer. As he saw the Tully banners approach the small stream, he felt a sudden emptiness. His father's voice in his head was silent. There was no more advice to give. He had done everything father ever told him. What he did now, would be his own. Would he do his father proud? _I am always proud,_ the voice said one final time and Robb steadied himself as the fist tails of crimson cloth became visible through the trees. He reached down and Olyvar handed him his lance before mounting his own horse.

Even from here he could see the glint of the Kingslayer's armour, a golden jewel upon a tide of blood. He felt his heart steady itself. This was it. If he could take the Kingslayer, the battle would be over and Riverrun would be his for the taking. But he knew it wasn't the right time, if he charged now, the Lannister rear could turn and warn the army outside Riverrun. No, he had to get them all.

He waited, his breath hot inside his helm. The Tully men sprung across the ford and into the woods beyond where the Karstark men were only waiting for his call. The Lannisters began to cross and he counted to slowly to a hundred. As he finished the Lannisters were still crossing. Now was the time, before they stumbled upon the Karstarks. He raised his lance and Grey Wind howled. He put his spurs to his horse as the howl was answered with warhorns from his own men and cheers as they joined him in the charge. They raced down the slope of the valley towards the unsuspecting Lannisters. He heard the warhorns of the Greatjon"s men coming from the other side of the valley, the sounds crashing together in a great cacophony, which was only made louder when the Karstark horns sang their tune.

They descended on the Lannisters like a wave of steel and Robb felt time slow down. This was his part of the battle, he picked out a Lannister knight, with a unicorn on his shield, and began to lower his lance, Tristan may trump him with the sword, but he was the better with the lance. The knight took too long reacting to the warhorns and Robb saw his chance, he lowered his lance and guided it under the knight's arm, punching it into the knight's side. Quickly he pulled back, drawing the steel tip from the knight so that the lance didn't snap inside the knight and he had another blow with it. He picked another knight, this one with a boar on it's tabard, unlike the unicorn knight, this one saw him and raised his sword. Robb kept his breath steady so he didn't panic but roared out a battle cry at the last moment and guided his lance into the new knight's chest.

Now his momentum was stalled so he let his lance fall and pulled his sword free, raining a blow on that boar knight's helm twice before he passed him and locked blades with another Lannister sworn sword. He danced with that knight for a while, their blades sparking off each other as they wheeled around each other, Robb raising his shield to protect himself and cutting back at his foe with abandon. But he wasn't alone for long. One of his Frey allies rode up to the knight's other side and then the knight was simply trying to shield himself from his two enemies. He dropped his sword soon after and raised his hands. "Yield!" Robb heard him cry out and he was dragged from his horse.

He heard the Greatjon's line send up a warcry and felt the ground shake as they slammed into the Lannisters from the other side. Two Lannister knights were in front of him, but Grey Wind charged forwards and they were thrown from their mounts. Robb charged forwards and attacked one of them as he struggle up, using his height advantage to rain blow after blow down on him. The knight was send sprawling and dropped his weapon in surrender. Robb looked at the other knight who was charging at him, mace in hand. But Grey Wind came to his defence, seizing the wrist which held the mace and, with a snarl, he yanked. The straps snapped and the man screamed as his arm tore from his torso with a spurting fountain of blood.

"STARK!" He looked to his left and felt himself pale. The Kingslayer, armoured in gold and with a bloody blade in his hand was charging for him, sworn retainers at his back. _He's going to kill me_.

He felt himself freeze. Tristan had fought the Kingslayer once, and his skilled brother, his proud brother, had said he was no match for the Lannister knight. And here he was, charging at him with murderous intent. He turned his horse, he wouldn't run, he couldn't, even though the Kingslayer was charging at him and laying about all who came in his way.

"Protect Lord Robb!" A voice cried and a rider, one of his Karstark guards charged forwards. He couldn't tell if it was Torrhen or Eddard, but he was charging the Kingslayer, and he saw a Frey and a Flint join him. The Karstark met the Kingslayer but, after a brief flurry of blows, the Kingslayer was pulling his blade from the man, red with blood. The Frey didn't last much longer, The Kingslayer cutting at his arm and then opening his throat, and then his third guard raised his sword and cut down, the Kingslayer slid aside and split his skull open with a single blow.

"Die Stark!" Jaime Lannister yelled as he charge once again.

"No!" Another rider came charging past, and with that pink surcoat, decorated with blood droplets, he knew it was Domeric Bolton, who had somehow retained his lance.

With perfect accuracy the heir to the Dreadfort lowered his lance and pierced the Kingslayer's horse through the tough and sinewy neck. As the horse reared one last time, Domeric whipped out his sword and disarmed the Kingslayer with his weakened grip. More of his men were swarming the Kingslayer's position and overwhelming the last of the Lannister men who were still fighting.

The battle was won, it was a total victory. He heard cries being taken up by the men of his host. "Young Wolf, Young Wolf, Young Wolf!

He took of his helm and raised his sword in triumph. Warmth spread through him and a smile alighted his face. He had done it. Without his father whispering in his ear, he had taken the Kingslayer captive and won his first battle. "Gather up and count the prisoners," he ordered, swinging himself off his horse and rubbing Grey Wind's bloody muzzle affectionately. He approached Domeric Bolton, who oversaw the binding of the Kingslayer's hands. As Jaime Lannister was dragged away, Robb clapped Domeric on the shoulder. "I owe you my life, Lord Domeric," he said.

"You owe me nothing, my lord," he said, bowing at the waist. "I swore to your brother, your mother and you that I would keep you safe. I honour my word, my lord."

He touched Domeric's shoulder in thanks and looked around. Knights and lordlings of the west were being bound and taken away to be held for ransom or prisoner exchanges. _Well done_ his father said.

"All for you, father," he whispered back as his own lords and warriors gathered to him. "Today was a great victory. But I fear we do not have the time to celebrate or mourn. The Kingslayer's host still rings Riverrun in iron and Steel, we must needs liberate it before they learn what has happened here. Lend me your lances and your swords and ride with me again, to Riverrun!"


	30. Book 1 Lyonel V

"Take us out east," Lyonel called out to the oar master, Bearded Benjicot.

"East, my lord?" Ben asked him. He pointed out their target. "They are turning north."

Lyonel ground his teeth. He should not have to explain his orders on the deck of his own ship; they should be being followed without question. "But the currents to the north come south," he said slowly. "They will be caught in them and slowed, if we head out east, we can circle north and overtake them. Now, send us out east." He shook his head as his orders were finally being followed. The wind was heading south, so Lyonel had the main sails rolled up, only the small flag at the top of the sail was an indicator of the fact that this was a royal ship. The captain of the other ship could claim not to have seen it, which would mean he would have to get close enough to the other ship to make it stand down and allow him to escort it back to Dragonstone.

 _Starstorm,_ Lyonel's warship, was being rowed by three decks of oarsmen, tough, burly men, with tree trunk arms and backs that rippled with more muscle than most seas did waves. He normally had a catapult at the front of the ship, but had removed it, he didn't need the added weight, especially since he didn't intend to sink any ships, he still had the scorpions and the archers of his crew, more than able to subdue any errant merchantman and his crew. He headed to the railing and got a look at the ship he was going against. It was large, three decks, like his own, with white sails and a figurehead of a woman on the prow, a naked woman. "Turn us north," he called and the ship turned north before they lost sight of the ship. It would mean sharing the currents for a while, but he would break through them long before the merchantmen, since the currents stuck close to the coast in this region. "Keep up the rowing. Do not lose that ship!"

They kept up the rowing, slowly closing in on the ship, although they were still far too far for voices to reach.

A yell of pain made him turn quickly. One of his crew was lying on his back, a long shaft of wood protruding from his chest. Lyonel rushed over and knelt beside him as some of the crew rushed over. The man was coughing blood, speckles landing on his leather jerkin. Then a thud made him look over his shoulder and saw another shaft sticking from the wooden deck of the ship. "Archers!" He yelled. "Cover, now!" He seized the struck man under the arms and dragged him back towards his cabin as other shafts landed in the deck, but no more hit his men as they took cover beneath the gunwales, one tried to reach a scorpion and arm it, but another shaft punched through his chest and he fell to the deck. He slammed the door to his cabin open with his back and pulled the wounded man outside, several crewmen followed him in, including Bearded Ben. He lay the bloody man down gently, but he would have felt nothing if he'd dropped him, he was dead.

"How can they hit us?" One of his crewmen asked, it was a deckhand, so understandable, but three of the men with him were archers. "We are too far away."

Lyonel was wondering that. He wasn't sure he would be able to reach them with his bow at this range, but there was more than one archer sending these arrows at his ship. He took hold of the long shaft in the man's chest, pressed his other hand on the man's chest and yanked the shaft free. It had no metal tip, it was a yard long and made from golden wood. "Goldenheart," he muttered. The bows of the Summer Islands were the only ones who used that kind of arrow, the only kind of bow that could outmatch dragonbone. They weren't chasing a swan ship, swan ships had no oars, but whoever it was had hired summer islanders to help defend it from pirates and raiders

"Get me my helmet and bow," he said calmly, closing the eyes of his sailor and folded his arms over his chest. He raced over to his desk and quickly scrawled out a note identifying them to the enemy, provided one of them could read basic. Then, for good measure, copied it out two more times in case he missed. Someone held out his helmet and he put it on his head, the T shaped slit allowing him peripheral vision, even if it had a gap for arrows to slide between. He tied his quiver to his hip and took up his bow. "Archers, wait here, Ben, bring the ship closer, we need to close with them." He opened the door and looked out.

The arrows were still falling, hitting only the wooden deck of the ship, the crew on the upper deck had taken cover and were safe, and as far as he could tell, there were no more dead men on his ship.

Seeing his chance, he sprinted from the cabin and skidded to the gunwales, ducking below them to hide from the archers, the golden arrows would be able to punch into and through the railings, but they were too far away right now to have seen that. He poked his head up over the barrier as the hail of hard wood began to wane. They were closer now, directly to the east of the enemy, so the wind wouldn't be working against them as long as he aimed a little bit ahead. He drew an arrow and took the first of his notes, wrapping it tightly around the wooden shaft and tying it in place with a thin piece of cord. He looked over again, now should be close enough. He notched the arrow and muttered a quick prayer. "Warrior, guide my shot." He rose to his feet, drawing his bowstring back to his ear and raising his bow into the air, aiming just in front and above the figurehead before letting it fly. He ducked below the railings again, waiting for the intermittent rain of arrows to stop, if it did, his letter his home and someone read it.

It didn't take long for the arrows to stop, but he kept his head down for a while afterwards, they could be stopping, or it could be a slight pause. But a glance over the railings made him smile. He hadn't missed, of course he hadn't. The ship was slowing down. "Ben," he called. "Bring us in closer! Everyone back to decks!"

His archers joined him, ready to secure the enemy ship. They'd left their bows behind this time, armed instead with swords, spears and tridents. Ben pulled them in close, where he soon saw members of the crew waiting for them, including three mud-skinned summer islanders, holding their goldenheart bows close. "Captain," a Tyroshi with a forked green beard called to him, waiving one hand vigorously. "I am most sorry for attacking you, we didn't see your flag. If we had, we"d have never done so."

"My crew suffered for it," he replied coldly. "By order of my father, the Gullet is closed, I need to inspect your hold and bring you back to Dragonstone."

"Is that truly necessary, captain," he replied nervously, his hand twisting circles around each other.

The boarding planks were extended and he led his men across. They spread out across the deck to secure it. "Yes it is," he replied, staying near the captain. "My father, the Lord of Dragonstone has ordered the Gullet closed, and now some form of recompence must be paid for my dead and injured sailors."

"I... understand, I was just in a hurry to be on my way."

"Behave well and you shan't be detained long I'm sure," he lied. "But I must ask, why the rush? This is hardly the easiest route out, going directly east from the gullet would have put you out into the sea, far easier to turn north from there."

He licked his lips and ran his fingers through his hair. He was clearly nervous of something. "I grew up in Tyrosh," he said, unnecessary given his beard, but he was clearly showing something. "I can tell when something is about to explode, and I saw it in that city."

"King's Landing?" He asked. The captain nodded. "What happened?"

"A supposed traitor, he admitted his guilt freely, but he was executed."

"Who was?"

"The Hand of the King, Eddard Stark."

()()()

"So it's done then," Lord Stannis said to his family, gripping the painted table tightly, his knuckles white as winter snow. "The war is assured, but now without the support of the Starks, unless he found a way to tell his son."

His mother took his father's hand gently, rubbing it with her thumb in a soothing circle. "So it would seem, husband."

"I never counted Lord Stark a friend, but he supported my claim. At least at first." The captain had told them that he had confessed to treason, naming Joffrey as the true king before having his head cut off. He'd thought Lord Stark would have more dignity than that, more honour than to whore out for an attempt to preserve his life. Perhaps uncle Robert had been wrong about his friend. If he'd just stuck to his principles, the city would know, damn it the world would know that his father was the rightful king.

"What do we do now, father?" He asked.

His father gestured to the map table. "Stark and Lannister are already at each other's throats in the Riverlands, and Lord Stark's heir has no reason to love me, I have no reason to believe Lord Eddard ever told him the truth; my brother... gods know where he has ridden off to, Highgarden would be my guess, but he has always been a servant of his own whims, and they carry him like a feather on the wind. Balon Greyjoy is not to have forgotten his dreams of independence, though we'll deal with him when the time comes. Tyrell has ambitions enough to fill three times his substantial belly, but would eat out of my brother's hand if he offered him excrement, I could offer him the sweetest peach and he would look at it with suspicion."

"We've tried, husband," his mother replied. "Though I agree, a reply is unlikely."

"Reply?" Shireen asked.

Their father nodded. "We sent missives to Highgarden, proposing talks about a marriage between either Lyonel and Margaery, or you and Lord Willas."

That he had not expected. His father hated the Tyrells, would he really offer both he and Shireen to them? "Father, you swore-"

"I know" he replied quickly. "But your mother's words were wise. A hundred thousand swords to carry us to the throne are too valuable to pass up fully, though if they hope to rule through me, they will be sorely mistaken."

"Perhaps Uncle Renly will convince them of the worthiness of our match," Shireen reasoned.

Their father's jaw tightened but he said nothing.

"Perhaps," their mother said, picking up where their father left off. "Regardless. We have sent out our first ships and envoys, men your father trusts to begin courting some of the lords of the east. We would send you in person, but-"

"But I won't have you seized and turned over to the Lannisters," their father finished, looking up at them with something nearing affection in his eyes. "In the meantime, we hope that the Stark twins take their vengeance upon Tywin Lannister, prepare our vessels and our armies, and prepare for our own war."

His teeth pressed together, dragging along each other like quernstones. "As you say, father."

That night he stared out over the bay from his balcony. The water was still and quiet, a long spear of moonlight shooting out into the sea, the unmoving shadowy hulks of warships bobbing up and down like corks in the bay, and everywhere the silence hung heavy. It was hard to imagine that the Riverlands were aflame, the men and women were being ravaged by war as he stood here, so isolated from it all. But they were, that was the reality. It would all be righted by his father, he told himself. Once his father was on the throne, he would return justice to the kingdoms such as they hadn't known in decades.

A gentle knock sounded from behind him. He turned. Who was visiting him at this hour? Well it could only be one of two people, but he suspected he already knew who. "Enter."

Sure enough Shireen padded through the doorway. She looked ready for bed herself, a white nightgown falling to her knees, exposing her shins and feet and her bare arms, the greyscale marks coursing up her left forearm. Her hair was flowing freely about her and a thick grey fur was wrapped around her shoulders and upper body. They way she walked, the soft padding of her feet on the cold stone, she seemed so... angelic. "Did you know I was awake?" He asked her.

"I suspected," she replied, "I knew when I saw the candle light under your door. I wondered how you were doing, you had trouble sleeping and-"

"You couldn't sleep yourself," he finished, smiling at his sister as a soft flush rose on her sharp cheeks. "It's okay, you needn't have worried. I've been sleeping a lot better but now... now I can't help but think of the wars to come."

"Neither can I," she replied, gliding up to his side and sliding her arm through his, resting his head on her shoulder. They watched the sea in silence, there was nothing to be discussed. Neither of them knew what war was like, neither of them could pretend to reassure the other that it would all be over soon. They simply relished in the presence of the other, each the other's guardian against the outside world. "What do you think of father's letters to the Tyrells?"

He'd thought on it much as well. "It's a sound plan. If it works," he said. "I wouldn't fear on that count. I'm far more likely to be married than you are. If the fat flower is anything like I suspect, he'll want his daughter to be the queen. Which means me, not you."

She gripped his arm tighter. "Perhaps. But after all my worry about the Targaryen, I'm going to lose you to a Tyrell."

"You're not going to lose me," he turned to her and pulled her into a hug, tucking her head under his chin. "I promise. You don't think I'd let a Tyrell come between us do you?"

He felt her cheek twitch in a smile. "No," she replied after a few moments.

"Exactly. If I have to marry her I'll marry her, do my duty by her and father children on her. As long as she is dutiful we'll have no concern; but I would never let my wife try to divide us. Since the days we were kept apart from others left to the gods to heal from this or die," he tapped his stone collar, "we have been together, and a wedding or two won't tear that apart."

"I know," she said quietly, "but it's always nice to hear it from your lips."

He chuckled and stepped back. "Much as I love spending time with you, we'll both need our sleep. You should get back to bed."

She nodded and leant up to kiss him, pressing her soft, warm lips to his. "Goodnight Lyonel, sleep well."

He nodded. "You as well Shireen, and make sure you take some of that potion won't you. You shouldn't be troubled by the dead when we have so many problems with the living."

She let a grin come over her. "I don't know, if the dead know the truth I imagine it might be quite fun to talk with Uncle Robert right now."

"As long as you don't dream of him with a hammer," he retorted. "But maybe some other night. Take the potion Shireen, promise me."

She nodded in a mockingly demure manner. "Yes, my prince."

"Go!"He said laughing at her as she slipped out the door. He lay his head back on the pillow and thought about her last comment. It was true wasn't it. He was a prince now, son of the rightful king. He shed the last of his daywear then leant over to blow out his bedside candle, and Prince Lyonel Baratheon turned himself over to the night.


	31. Book 1 Robb V

_Carnacki23: Well they aren't twins, so they aren't doing the 'twin thing', per se, but they are very close. Obviously I'm not going to say how the relationship is going to change throughout the war and so on; but the reason they are so close right now is due to their upbringing. They didn't really ever have any other friends so they've not really had to care what their peers think about them and also they've come to rely on each other more than most siblings do' and what with their experiences, such as the horseback incident, they just don't have shame in front of each other. I will say that they are not having sex or even thinking about it, or pretending to be each other. They're not like Jaime and Cersei, Shireen fully understands that as a woman she has a different role to play than Lyonel, she isn't trying to_ be _him. Obviously this is a complicated relationship, like most are, but I hope that answers your question._

* * *

His anger burned as hot as the camp around him.

"Why?" He asked, feeling his voice grate along his throat like a grindstone on steel. "Why is... why...?"

Lord Tytos Blackwood looked crestfallen at him. The lord had led a sortie out to support them when they had attacked the Lannister camp. The shield wall the enemy had formed fell apart when the Blackwood lord fell on them from Riverrun itself. He wore a cloak of raven feathers, and dark wings bring dark words, for a raven had arrived from the capital. "I cannot say, lord," he replied. "The raven said that Lord Eddard confessed his treason and was executed on the steps of Baelor's sept."

He curled his fists in his gauntlet. Everything he had come south for, gone, all his losses so far, they now meant nothing. _Calm, Robb, a Lord must be calm in the face of his bannermen, or he will lose all his respectability._ Robb closed his eyes. Yes father. "Lord Umber," he called his second greatest champion to him. "Take everything of value from the Lannisters and set up camp, then tell the lords to prepare to enter Riverrun. I must... be... alone."

"Of course, my lord," the Greatjon replied, in the most solemn voice Robb had ever heard him use. "Come on then you lot," he roared to the men. "Let's strip everything we can find and move on!"

Robb moved away, alone, even the members of his noble guards seemed to know he was not to be followed. Only Grey Wind accompanied him, his faithful wolf alone shared his sorrow. He retreated beyond the trees and, when there, he fell against a tree and slid down it, his breath coming in sharp gasps. Why, why had this happened? Father... dead... it shouldn't be possible. But it was. His father was dead, murdered, and he was lord of Winterfell. Grey Wind paced around until they were facing each other, his golden eyes looking into Robb's own.

He ran his fingers through the sleek fur of the wolf, feeling the power of the beast, the power of the Old Gods, the gods of the North. Had they abandoned his father? Did they forsake him? He shook his head. This was not the work of gods. This was the work of a king, a boy king. Grey Wind began to growl at him. He felt the heat of the wolf's breath on his face, the smell of blood on his jaws from the battle. "I won't let them get away with this," he whispered and pressed his forehead to Grey Wind's. "I swear it, I will get revenge. Father will receive the justice he deserves. Will you help me?"

Grey Wind seemed to nod, then looked back to the camps and the victory he had just won. "I am lord now," he reminded himself. "I will do my duty as lord, as father would have wished." He couldn't just leave or fall apart now. For Tristan and mother, for Bran and Rickon, for Sansa and Arya, for his Lords and vassals, he would be strong for them. They needed him, and he would be there.

They crossed the Trident on small boats, for the sluice gates had been opened and the moat completely encircled the castle. Grey Wind joined him, the Greatjon, Daryn Hornwood, Domeric Bolton, Lord Blackwood and his mother in the first boat. His mother had held her stoic strength throughout it all, not shedding a tear or letting out a cry of self pity. She had been stronger than he had, and he envied and pitied her in equal measure.

Not since his mother had brought him to Winterfell at the end of Robert's Rebellion had Robb been in Riverrun. He had no memories of this place. He wanted to see his grandfather, the room in which he had been born, where he would have first met his father. But there was something he must do first. His father said that he always prayed after battle. To give thanks to the Old Gods for the victory, and for his own survival, and the souls of those who had died for him. He would do the same.

Riverrun's godswood was for pleasure, not worship, that was easy to tell, but it still had it's heart tree. It wasn't a weirwood, but a great Oak. It would serve, and he knelt before it, joined by his lords bannermen and the northern men of his personal guard, as well as the Mormont ladies. They were joined by Lord Tytos Blackwood, one of the few lords south of the Neck who held to the Old Gods. Together and in silence, they prayed. He prayed for Tristan, that he was safe and unharmed following the battle, and that he would be able to deal with the grief that would come from his father's death. He couldn't think how he would though, he had spent a year away, then father had gone south shortly afterwards, how could he so easily deal with that? Then he prayed for the lost, for Owen Flint and Eddard Karstark, who had died saving him from the Kingslayer, he even prayed for Walton Frey, to whom he also owed his life, though it is unlikely that he ever looked at a godswood as a place of worship. Then for all the men lost in the battles they had faced, all the sons of lords and nobles that had come with him; for all the nameless faceless smallfolk who marched with Tristan. He didn't know what had happened there, Tristan could be dead with the entire army, or all of them could be, he prayed they were not.

His prayers finished, he got to his feet and left the Godswood, where he was met by Riverrun's maester. "My Lord Stark," he said. Robb felt his fingers curl before he remembered that the maester was just referring to him as a lord as befitting his rank, not because he was Lord of Winterfell, a role his father should still have been filling. "A raven came for you."

"For me?" Robb asked. But who knew he was here.

The maester nodded. "Aye, it came from the Twins." He held it out.

Robb took the scroll and slit the seal on it. The letters were none he recognised, but the name at the bottom was and, despite himself, and all that had happened, he smiled. Tristan had survived, and had probably had someone write the letter for him, he never was one or sitting still long enough to do so.

 _Robb_

 _I sent this raven to Riverrun, for I know in my heart of hearts that you will make it there and be victorious. I write to tell you of my own defeat. I marched against Tywin Lannister, we met in battle along the Green Fork and lost. Thankfully he didn't pursue, thanks to Theon's activities in the battle and Lord Lannister apparently learning that you split the army, he fell back. I lost near four thousand men, but I hope it bought you enough time. We are at the Twins now and Lord Bolton is helping me regather the host._

 _I will await you here for your word on what to do next._

 _Your twin,_

 _Tristan Stark_

He had to call a war council in the next few days. Now they knew the fate of Tristan"s host, they must prepare the war to come.

* * *

They sat around the edge of the Great Hall of Riverrun. His uncle Edmure sat in the seat of the Tullys in the place of his father, and he sat opposite him, on the far side of the Hall. On his right was Lord Umber, to his left was his mother. Lord Karstark sat on the other side of Lord Umber, and the line continued, Lady Mormont, Lord Glover and Lord Tallhart as well, with members of his personal guard, especially those like Domeric Bolton and Daryn Hornwood, who's fathers were with his brother, sat on the other side of his mother. On the other side were the Riverlords. Lord Blackwood sat on one end so as to put as much distance between himself and Lord Bracken, who had arrived not long ago, driven off his land by Lannisters. Like Lord Bracken, men and lords began trickling in when they heard of the relief of Riverrun. Karl Vance came to Riverrun a Lord, and he had begun the war as a knight, and he came with Marq Piper and the new, young Lord Darry. At this council, all had the right to speak, and all were eagerly exercising that right. It was enough to grate on Robb's nerves. But still, the Riverlords were on his side now, and if he was to keep their armies united in battle and purpose, he would have to balance the needs of the Riverlords with his own Northern men. That his grandfather still lived lessened the tension, for Robb was the only Lord Paramount here, though Edmure was doing his best to fill that spot in the absence of old Lord Hoster.

At the Twins he had only three options available to him. March against Tywin, march against Jaime, or both. But now, he had more options available, as the south was tearing itself apart.

"The current course is clear," Lord Jonos Bracken declared, taking to the floor. "Renly Baratheon has been crowned at Highgarden, we should march south and join our forces with his."

They had received the news the day after Tristan's raven. Renly Baratheon had been crowned at Highgarden, wedding the Tyrell daughter and the banners of Highgarden and Storm's End were his own. But still...

"Renly is not the King," he reminded Lord Bracken.

Lord Karstark spoke up, thunderstruck. "You cannot mean to hold to Joffrey my lord, he ordered your father to death."

"That makes him evil," Robb agreed. "But I don't know that it makes Renly King. Joffrey is Robert's eldest trueborn son, and even if he were to die, and believe me, my lords, I intend to see that he does, it doesn't make Renly King. Joffrey has a younger brother, the boy Tommen, and even if he dies, then there is another brother between Robert and Renly. Tristan is my twin, yet he is the younger, if he cannot be lord of Winterfell before me, Renly cannot be king while Stannis yet lives."

"But what does Stannis have?" Lord Vance argued. "Renly has all the power of Storm's End and Highgarden to call on, Stannis has some ships and some men from the Narrow sea, and he will attempt to fight his brother and the Lannisters in one war."

"He has the right," Lady Mormont said. The hall broke down into bickering, should they back Renly's claim to the throne or side with Stannis Baratheon.

Tristan would likely favour the arguments of joining with Renly, it would be the best and fastest way of getting their own vengeance. But Robb was a lord now, he had more responsibilities, he had to defend his lords and people, and joining Renly Baratheon was leaving his allies to the mercy of Tywin Lannister.

"Why must we decide now," Stevron Frey, his father's representative spoke up. "Let the lions and stags battle over the Iron Throne, when the dust has settled and one side is ascendant, we can kneel to them or oppose them as we wish."

Robb was able to keep his face straight, but his lords were less able. Lord Umber openly called him a coward and others echoed the sentiment. But it did raise a point. Lord Tywin was still ravaging the Riverlands, and would have to be dealt with.

Lord Jason Mallister, a respected veteran stood up. "Whoever we support, Tywin Lannister is a threat. I say we prepare to remove him. We should gather our strength, straddle the supply lines to Casterly Rock and pick off his foragers."

"Why wait," Ser Marq Piper spoke up. The hotheaded knight was eager to repay Lord Tywin for the war so far. "With Lord Tywin in Harrenhal, I say we march on Casterly Rock, pay him back in kind for all the damage that has been done to the Trident."

That garnered some support, as did the suggestion of marching on Lord Tywin at Harrenhal. That option was supported by Lord Blackwood, and mostly other Riverlords who, Robb suspected, held lands in the south eastern Riverlands.

Then his mother spoke up. "Why not peace?" The lords and ladies looked to her, and Robb did as well, though he couldn't believe she had said that. "My lord is dead. Walton Frey, Eddard Karstark, Owen Flint, they are forever lost to us now. I want no more death of our valiant sons, and I want my daughter back. If it costs us four Lannisters, I call that a fair trade and thank the gods."

Lord Karstark called out for vengeance against the Lannisters before peace, and Lord Bracken added his own voice. "The Mountain ravaged my home, and I am supposed to kneel to those who sent him? Never!" Robb understood his mother's desire well enough, he wanted to see Arya and Sansa again as well. But what about father? How could he stand before his father's statue in the crypts with his death unanswered, his name left as a traitor? He couldn't, Joffrey Baratheon would pay for the crime of his father's murder.

Even the Blackfish seemed to agree that the war was not done. "Peace is sweet, but at what price, my lady?" He asked. "It is no use to beat your sword into a ploughshare if you must forge it again on the morrow."

"And peace with who? Lord Blackwood asked. "If we make peace with the Lannisters are we not traitors to King Renly?"

"You may all decide for yourselves," Marq Piper called out. "But I would sooner have both my legs cut off than go on my knees before a Lannister and call him my king."

Robb wanted to be able to comfort his mother, but how could he, no, they would answer for their crimes. "Mother," he said. "I know you loved father, but you are not alone in that. I loved him as well." He drew his sword and placed the point on the stone floor of the hall. "But this is the only peace I have for the Lannisters."

Shouts of support for that rose from both sides of the hall, but one voice could be heard above all others, a voice Robb was used to, but had not expected.

"My Lords," the Greatjon called over the clamour. "My lords!" The other's quietened to listen to the Lord of Last Hearth. "Here's what I say to these two Kings." He spat a huge gob of spit onto the stone floor and several northerners laughed, Robb let a smile creep across his face as well. "Renly Baratheon is nothing to me. Nor Stannis neither. Why should they rule over me and mine from some flowery seat in Highgarden or Dorne? What do they know of the Wall, the Wolfswood or the Barrows of the First Men? Even their gods are wrong." Robb wasn't sure where he was going with this, apart from Lord Blackwood, those who worshiped the Seven included their Riverlord allies. "And as to the Lannisters, they think they have the right to rule us after murdering our lord? Piss on that... the Others take them and their boy king. Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again?" _What_. "It was the Dragons we bowed to, and Robert Baratheon earned our fealty. But the Dragons are gone, and Robert Baratheon is dead." He drew his sword and Robb's breath hitched, but Grey Wind didn't move, he sensed no danger.

Robb tried to keep his face still as the Greatjon turned to him and pointed his huge sword at him. "There sits the only king I mean to bend the knee to, m'lords. The King in the North!"

His heart froze. King. Him. But... no Stark had been a king in three hundred years. Not since Torrhen the Last bent the knee to Aegon the Dragon. Since then they had been ruled from the Iron Throne. But the Iron Throne had executed his father. The Greatjon was right. Why should they rule over them? What had they done to earn it? He was the Lord of the North. He could rule them properly, unlike Joffrey Baratheon or his Lannister supporters: He could protect them as their liege; be honourable as father, strong, just, and brave against his foes. He could do it. And he would make father proud.

He found himself standing tall and alone as the Greatjon placed his sword at his feet. But then Grey Wind stood as well, standing beside him as the heart of winter, the strength and history of house Stark supporting him.

"I'll have peace on _those_ terms," Lord Karstark declared, rising as well. "They can keep their red castle, and their iron chair too." He lay his sword with the Greatjon's. "The King in the North!"

"For those who have fallen," Domeric Bolton declared, drawing his own steel.

"For those who are lost," Daryn Hornwood added, the two of them placing their steel down with the others. "The King in the North."

Lady Maege Mormont stood, her spiked mace in her hand. "The King of Winter!" She declared, joining her steel and knees to those of her fellows.

They were trusting him with a crown, Robb knew, and he swore to himself that he wouldn't disappoint them. The Greatjon broke the momentary silence. "The King in the North!"

And now they were all rising, the northmen got off their seats and placed their steel before him. But they weren't alone. The rivermen were rising too. Mallister, Bracken, Blackwood, Darry, Piper, Vance and more, men and lords who had never known the rule of Winterfell were pledging themselves to him, placing themselves under his protection, shouting words that hadn't been heard since the time of Aegon the Dragon.

"The King in the North!"

"The King in the North!"

"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"


	32. Book 1 Loren VI

_BLACK-OP1: She is still in King's Landing, with Joffrey and the Lannisters. However, slight spoiler, she'll be a POV next book, so we'll get to see her experiences first hand._

 _Omega Gogeta: Well nothing has changed that would make the North do anything different at this point. But when it comes to seceding, they were an independent Kingdom for thousands of years, and in canon Robb was winning for most of the early war. Stannis is going to think the same as he does in canon about Renly and Robb crowning themselves, but he doesn't have Daenerys or Tristan, Dany's in King's Landing and Tristan's with Robb. If you mean Lyonel and Shireen, then you'll see._

 _Tarabas: She's in King's Landing._

 _Also, this is the last chapter of the first book. I'll admit that here and for a good chunk of the next book, thing's have been towing the canon line a little. The main reason being that I'm not just going to change things from the Canon because I can, it has to be as a consequence of what has happened because of the introduction of these characters. While this may mean that it sticks to that line a little too much, overall it should be for the best since if I was to just change things to be different, especially with binary events like battles, the changes would be more predictable. But a lot of this setup pays off by book three where we see real and profound differences from then on._

 _Since this first book is done, it would be really useful if people could tell me what worked, what they liked and didn't like just to give me more to go on from here. I hope you've enjoyed it so far and will continue to stick with me._

 _Psykic Ninja_

* * *

"They have my son," Lord Tywin said.

 _Only one,_ Loren thought angrily as he sipped at his wine.

"They do, my lord," the messenger spoke, the boar of Crakehall on his surcoat half obscured by caked blood.

His father's bannermen and captains had fallen silent as the messenger told his tale, with only the crackling of the fire to break the silence.

The hard march south had been strenuous and Loren suspected that he was not the only one who was silently grateful to be in an Inn for even one night. Unlike his time in the company, there wasn't time to set up properly most nights and the discomfort was getting to him. But it was hardest on the men. Those wounded in the battle had fallen behind, Loren had taken it upon himself to set up a reserve force that marched more slowly, able to pick up those the main host left behind. But some who collapsed on the march never rose again, and some fell asleep for the final time, and every night a few more men would sneak out of camp into the darkness. It had all been for nought. By the time they reached the Inn at the Crossroads again, Robb Stark had already liberated Riverrun, days and days ago.

"How could this happen?" Ser Harys Swyft moaned. "How? Even after the Whispering Wood, you had Riverrun ringed in iron, surrounded by a great host . . . what madness made Ser Jaime decide to split his men into three separate camps? Surely he knew how vulnerable that would leave them?"

"Jaime is impetuous," Loren spoke up. "But he is not a complete fool. To split and create three camps requires effort I'd not expect of him unless it was essential, especially to ring them with stockades. I suspect there was reason to this so called madness."

"There was," Kevan said. "You have never seen Riverrun, Ser Harys, or you would know that Jaime had little choice in the matter. The castle is situated at the end of the point of land where the Tumblestone flows into the Red Fork of the Trident. The rivers form two sides of a triangle, and when danger threatens, the Tullys open their sluice gates upstream to create a wide moat on the third side, turning Riverrun into an island. To cut off all the approaches, a besieger must place one camp north of the Tumblestone, one south of the Red Fork, and a third between the rivers, west of the moat. There is no other way, none."

"Ser Kevan speaks truth, my lords," the messenger said. "We put stakes and palisades around the camps, but there was no warning given when the Northmen attacked, only slaughter and destruction. Ser Brynden Tully led the first assault on the northern camp, clearing out the outriders and barricades, by the time anyone knew what was happening, we were overwhelmed. Lord Brax attempted to lead a force across from our camp to the west, but the current carried the rafts within range of Riverrun's walls, and they sent stones and arrows our way, turning many rafts and shattering others. This left the camp open to attack. The Mallister Eagle and Umber Giant could be seen, but it was the boy who led them, his great wolf at his side. I didn't see it, but I heard it killed four men and a dozen horses. The spearmen tried to form a shield wall, but a sortie from Riverrun led by Tytos Blackwood took it from behind. A few of the rafts made the journey, but the Starks were waiting for them on the far bank."

"My father?"Ser Flement Brax asked. "He led the sortie on the rafts."

The messenger nodded sadly, his head bowed. "I'm sorry my lord, but I saw his raft get turned to splinters by a catapult. He was clad in full plate mail."

Loren was saddened by that, such a pointless death, now his body was resting at the bottom of the river.

"Gods save us," his father in law, Lord Lefford swore.

"The Greatjon Umber fired the siege towers we had built," the messenger continued. "Lord Blackwood found the prisoners we had taken so far and liberated them all. Ser Forley Prester saw this and held his men back. He was able to retreat to the Golden Tooth with two thousand spearmen and as many archers. But the Tyroshi that Jaime left to command his outriders went over to the Starks when he saw the completeness of the victory."

"Curse the man," Kevan said. "I told Jaime not to trust a sellsword, a man who fights for gold is loyal only to his purse."

"I fought for gold once, Uncle," he reminded the table darkly, making them all look at him sharply. "I never betrayed a contract. Perhaps Jaime should not have been so eager to ride out against raiders," he turned to the messenger. "Did the outriders see nothing of this assault incoming?"

"They had been vanishing, my lord," the messenger told him. "We had thought it to be the work of Marq Piper and other raiders, not the Stark host. We had been told they were marching down the eastern side of the Green Fork. Ser Jaime led the horse out to pursue raiders the night before, Marq Piper we thought, not the Starks. Outriders still returned, but those who did had not seen anything."

"A man who sees nothing has no use for his eyes." Ser Gregor thundered. "Cut them out and give them to the next man, tell him you hope four eyes see better than two... if not, the next man will have six."

"Threatening outriders serves no purpose Clegane," Loren replied, shaking his head at the stupidity, were there really only two men in the whole Lannister host who understood how to use outriders? "If you threaten them as such, they will see something. Far better that they see nothing truly than something falsely. The outriders are supposed to give you what they see, what happens after that is the fault of the man who has the information and squanders it."

The Mountain didn't reply.

"How could it happen?" Ser Harys Swyft muttered again. "Ser Jaime taken, the siege broken . . . this is a catastrophe!"

"That is true," Loren said. "But the information is ours, what are we going to do with it, that is what we should be asking."

"What can we do? Jaime's host is all slaughtered or taken or put to flight, and the Starks and the Tullys sit squarely across our line of supply. We are cut off from the west! They can march on Casterly Rock if they so choose, and what's to stop them? My lords, we are beaten. We must sue for peace."

"Peace," Tyrion spoke for the first time, and Loren looked to him. His dwarf brother drained his wine and threw the cup to the ground where it shattered. "There's your peace. Our good King Joffrey saw to that when he turned Eddard Stark's head into an ornament for the Red Keep's walls. You have better chance drinking from that cup than you will bringing Robb Stark to talk now. He is winning, or have you so swiftly forgotten?"

"Two battles don't make a war," Ser Addam replied. "I would relish the chance to test my own steel against the Stark boy."

"By now Stark will have gathered to him the scattered Riverlords, and be calling those who had not been called initially to join them. If we want to march against him, we will have to force the Trident against an opposing host. I would not relish doing so," Loren said.

Lord Lefford offered his own suggestion. "Perhaps they would consent to exchange prisoners."

"Unless they trade four for every one, we will come of worse," Tyrion replied.

"What about Ser Jaime. We need to ransom him, I hear we have Lord Stark's daughters."

"It would be possible if we had Lord Stark himself," Loren said. "But Stark would be laughed out of his lordship if he traded Jaime Lannister for two girls."

"We aren't out of this war yet," Ser Flement said. "We control the capital, we could surely prevail on the queen to raise a fresh host from there, and we still have reserves at Casterly Rock."

"They have my son!" Lord Tywin's voice cut across the babble like a lance through lard. "Kevan, Loren, Tyrion, you stay, the rest of you, out." Not one of the others hesitated in obeying Lord Tywin.

Kevan crossed to the wine casks. "Uncle, if you could," Tyrion began, but Lord Tywin cut across him.

"Here," he passed his dwarf son his full cup of wine.

"I will have another cup, if you would be so kind uncle," Loren said. When Kevan had returned, Tywin sat down.

"You two are right about Eddard Stark. Alive, we might have used him to broker a peace settlement with Winterfell and Riverrun. A peace would give us the freedom to deal with Robert's brothers but now... dead... madness, rank madness and bold stupidity." He shook his head. "I thought you were a drunk stunted fool and a headstrong, naive adventurer," he said to Tyrion and Loren. "Perhaps I was wrong." He perked up. Had his father just praised him, in front of Kevan and at the cost of Jaime? "But our situation is worse than you know, we have another king to deal with."

"Another?" Loren asked. "Has something befallen Joffrey?"

Tywin shook his head. "No... not yet, Renly Baratheon has married the daughter of Highgarden, her father, brothers and their bannermen have sworn him their swords, the banners of Storm's End were already his, and now they gather to make him king."

"That bodes ill," Loren commented wrly. Renly Baratheon had just gathered the largest host in Westeros to him.

"Cersei commands us to ride for King's Landing and defend it against Renly and the Knight of the Flowers," he scoffed. "Commands, mind you, in the name of King Joffrey, as his regent."

"How is King Joffrey taking the news?" Tyrion asked, seemingly with a certain black amusement.

"Cersei has not seen fit to tell him, she fears he will lead an army against Renly."

"What army?" Loren asked. "You don't mean to give him this one, surely?"

"He talks about leading the Gold Cloaks."

Tyrion scoffed. "Stannis Baratheon sits at Dragonstone and he would leave his throne undefended."

"What of Stannis?" Loren asked. "He is the eldest Robert's brothers, if we could get him to voice support for Joffrey..."

"Stannis Baratheon," Tywin mused. "Robb Stark, Renly Baratheon, Stannis Baratheon. From the start, I have seen Stannis as the greatest threat to Lannister power. But what does he do? Sits on Dragonstone? Oh Varys hears whispers sure enough. Stannis Baratheon is seizing ships, Stannis is building ships, Stannis is hiring Sellswords, Stannis has brought in a Shadowbinder from Asshai. What does it mean? Is any of it true, or all of it?" He shook his head. "Kevan, bring me the map."

Kevan did so. Lord Tywin unrolled the leather, smoothing it flat. "Jaime has left us in a bad way. The younger Stark twin and the remnants of his host are north of us. Our enemies hold the Twins and Moat Cailin. Robb Stark sits to the west, so we cannot retreat to Lannisport and the Rock unless we choose to give battle. Jaime is taken, and his army for all purposes has ceased to exist. Thoros of Myr and Beric Dondarrion continue to plague our foraging parties. To our east we have the Arryns, Stannis Baratheon sits on Dragonstone, and in the south Highgarden and Storm's End are calling their banners."

"With the Lords of the Trident, Robb Stark may well match us in numbers, and with his brother to the north, we may soon find ourselves trapped between three different armies if we stay here," Loren commented.

"We won't," his father replied simply. "Despite my daughter's _commands_ , we must finish our business with Stark before Renly assaults the capital. The host to the north will be reforming and won't be ready to pursue for a while, besides, it is at the mouth of the Causeway now, too far to trouble us. We will regroup at Harrenhal, Loren," Loren looked at his father's eyes. "Who would you trust to best lead the Outriders in your place?"

"Ser Addam," he answered at once, though slightly curious as to why someone should be leading them in his place.

"Kevan, inform Ser Addam that he is to screen our advance, in groups of four so we will have no vanishings this time. Then unleash Ser Gregor and send him before us with his marauders. Send out Vargo Hoat and his freeriders as well, and Ser Amory Lorch. Each is to have three hundred horse. Tell them I want to see the riverlands afire from the Gods Eye to the Red Fork." That was quite the level of destruction his father was ordering. "Would your savages be willing to join the plundering?" He asked Tyrion.

"That's like asking me if I am willing to drink," Tyrion japed. "But I would rather keep them with me."

Lord Tywin didn't object. "Very well, but keep them in check, I don't want your brother#s men to have to keep them in check as well as perform his other duties."

"What other duties?" Loren asked.

"You have some men of your own, two hundred, am I wrong."

"You aren't," Loren said.

Tywin nodded. "Good, they will help you, and I'm sure you'll find some use for the savages in the city, as long as they don't burn it down."

"Which city would that be father?" Tyrion asked.

"King's Landing. I am sending the two of you to court."

Loren couldn't keep his eyebrows from shooting towards his hairline. "To do what?" He asked his father.

"Rule," Lord Tywin said.

Tyrion let out a hoot of laughter. "Cersei may have words about that."

"Let her have them, she cannot be trusted with power, it seems. You two will bring the boy king to heel before he ruins us all, and his mother if it should come to that. But those lickspittles on the council are just as to blame; our friend Petyr, the venerable Grand Maester, and that cockless wonder Lord Varys. What sort of counsel are they giving Joffrey when he lurches from one folly to the next? Whose notion was it to make this Janos Slynt a lord? The man's father was a butcher, and they grant him Harrenhal. Harrenhal, that was the seat of kings! Not that he will ever set foot inside it, if I have a say. I am told he took a bloody spear for his sigil. A bloody cleaver would have been my choice." He shook his head. "And Selmy, what was the sense in dismissing him. He leant honour to whomever he served, the name Barristan the Bold means more than Cersei seems to know. Who says that of the Hound? Feed your dog under the table, I doubt Stark sits his Direwolf beside him for his lords to see." He pointed at the two of them. "Loren, you will serve as Hand of the King in my stead, Tyrion shall take Renly's vacated Master of Laws position. Together you will take the King in hand. If Cersei cannot curb the boy, you must, and if you have doubts about the loyalties of these councillors..."

"Treat them as Joffrey did lord Stark," he finished.

Tywin nodded. "It seems you have learned more lessons than I expected." He rose to his feet. "Set off at first light with your men. And Tyrion, the whore stays here." With that Tywin departed the inn.

Loren sat back in his chair, his mind still working over the events of the last minute. Him. Hand of the King.

"I should go and inform Shagga," Tyrion said, downing the last of father's wine. "I shall see you tomorrow, my lord Hand," and with that, he waddled from the room.

He was alone and the smile finally came. This was his chance, his chance to prove that he was more worthy than Jaime to inherit Casterly Rock. Jaime had failed at Riverrun, he would succeed at King's Landing and then father would be forced to recognise that Jaime's oaths meant he could not inherit, and he would be accepted as the heir to Casterly Rock.

This was his chance, and he would not squander it.


	33. Book 2 Shireen I

The cold hard stone normally hurt her knees when she was praying for this long, but pain was beyond Shireen now, for she was in the bosom of the Seven. "Mother above, please, shine your mercy down upon this world, protect the pure and innocent from the ravages of war and death that now tear across the land. I beg of you, please, have mercy for the people, have mercy for my brother, and have mercy for my father as they ride off to enforce the laws of men and gods on this world of sin and turmoil." She could feel the sweat slicking her palms as they were pressed together and begin to roll down her wrists like tears.

She knew that somewhere, the Seven would hear her prayers, but her eyes were drawn to the carved wooden statue of the Stranger, a carved grotesque looking more beast than man, and wondered if it would be he who heard; for it was likely to be he who would reap the greatest tally during the wars to come.

She went to wash her hands of the sweat and Septon Barre came over to her, his kindly face smiling. "My lady," he said. "You seem concerned about something, can I help?"

"If the Seven can't," she replied with a smile of her own. "I don't know that you can, Septon."

"They will always be listening, my lady," he replied, gesturing towards the statues. "the answers may be long in the coming, but they always hear you."

She nodded. She knew, and she had faith that they would answer her in time, but it didn't stop her wishing they would do so more quickly. Her brother would be sailing off to war soon, and with him gone, who could she turn to? Her mother would be running the island, and Ariel, for all her sweetness, was too pure, too innocent, even at thirteen, Shireen would not inflict her with the sorrows of war, or her own mind, not yet.

Her head turned as there was some kind of commotion in the corridor. "I shall tell them to be quiet," Barre said to her. But when he got within a few feet of the door, they burst open and more than a dozen men at arms entered with warhammers and longaxes in hand. "What is this?" Barre demanded, but was met only with an iron fist to his stomach, doubling him over with a gasp of pain.

"Septon Barre!" She gasped, racing over to them and holding the septon upright. "What are you doing?!" She demanded of the men.

"My Lady," the one who had punched her said. "We are only following orders." She heard the crack of metal on wood and turned, gasping as she saw one of the men hacking into the altar of the Crone, and one took his warhammer to the stained glass window behind it, shattering it and letting the cold sea air rush inside. "Stop this!" She shouted, "stop this now!" How could they, the Seven brought life to them all, had nursed them, guided them and protected them, why were they doing this? How could they? But her words were falling on deaf ears as the men at arms began bringing ropes around the statue of the crone, determined to pull it down. "Stop!" She screamed. Her prayers would never be answered, the gods would damn them, but not just them, her father and brother too, they had to stop, but she couldn't do anything except cower with the wounded septon.

"Do as our lady says," a voice called and she recognised Ser Hubart Rambton and his three sons arriving, swords in hand. "Stop this desecration at once!"

"Stay out of this Ser!" One of the men at arms said, as they started pulling on the statue of the Crone.

"Ser Hubart!" Shireen begged. "Please, do something!"

"Fear not, my lady, we shall deal with these men," he said, and he drove forwards, thrusting his sword through the man at arms who had punched Septon Barre. The man gasped and blood dribbled from his lips, dropping on the floor like rain. The men at arms stopped what they were doing and rushed over. Shireen held her head in her arms, to shield herself from the sounds of battle and death.

"Hold them," she heard a voice say. "We are to take the Sept, not the people."

When the fighting died down, she saw that the Rambtons had killed four of the men at arms but had been subdued and were being tied down with ropes to restrain them. "You have to stop this!" She screamed at the men at arms. "The gods will never forgive us!"

Then she looked at one of the dead men, his arms splayed out and his neck still pulsing blood, pooling on the floor and spreading rapidly. But on his breast she saw the red heart that was sewn there. Now she knew who had ordered this. The Red Woman.

"Stop this madness, now." Lyonel's voice was sweeter than any song she could sing.

"Lyonel!" Her brother entered carefully, five men of Lord Sunglass, a pious and mild lord Shireen had met in the sept many times, coming behind him.

"Sister," he said with a smile as he and the men behind him made a line between the men at arms around the Rambtons and the remains of the sept. He was in his chain armour, his bow in hand and his arrow notched. "Help Septon Barre to his feet Shireen, and you," he said to the men at arms, who had been joined now by more men and two knights, all with red hearts sewn on their breasts, "release those men, now!" Unable to refuse their lord's son, they cut free the knights of Rambton, who joined Lyonel in his line.

She helped Barre to his feet and led him over to his chair, sitting him down. "Are you okay, Barre?" She asked, concerned. He nodded, having got his breath back for the most part.

"My Lord, stand aside," one of the knights said. Lyonel was outnumbered, but he was not giving in. How she wished she had her bow at this moment, that she could stand at his side... but she had never killed a man before...

"No," Lyonel replied at once. "I know who you follow, and I do not recognise them as my own."

Then the men began to part, and the Red Woman approached. It was not hard to see why grown and trained knights feared her. She was tall, the tallest person in the room, with glowing red eyes, red robes and that ruby choker, most couldn't even pronounce her name properly and the way she held herself... it unnerved her, and she was here, with her gods around her... although under threat.

But Lyonel was not phased, even as his men inched backwards, he stood his ground, wrapping his fingers around his bowstring. "Prince Lyonel," she said, in her queer, otherworldly voice.

"Red Woman," he replied with a snarl. "Is this the so called great victory you saw in your flames, given to you by your red god? Four of your men are dead, and mine stand strong." She saw Lyonel's men take heart at that.

"They are not my men," she replied, unconcerned. "They are the Lord of Light's, they are all the Lord of Light's, as are you and I and every man, woman and child on this world. He is the one true god, worshipping to wooden pillars will not change that."

"These are my gods," he replied, his fingers twitching. Shireen knew his problem. Spilling blood in a sept, even in it's defence, could profane it, but that might be the only way he could protect it from this woman. "Yours is wrong and has no place here."

"You may close your eyes to the power of the Lord of Light, my prince," she replied, entirely unfazed. "You may close your ears to his words, but he will not disappear, and he will not be silenced."

Lyonel drew his bow back to his ear, his body in the perfect archer's stance and his arrow aimed for the red woman's heart. The red woman was slightly taller than he, but in that moment, Lyonel Baratheon, her sweet brother, looked like the Warrior himself. "I wonder if silencing you would suffice. Take your heresies elsewhere, witch, they are not wanted here."

"One day, my prince, you will open your ears to the Lord of Light's words, and then you will see the truth of your heart." How could she remain so calm? All of her men had flinched when Lyonel drew his bow.

"Still you speak witch. But nonsense repeated does _not_ become truth."

Then more feet approached and Shireen watched her father, stern and strong, enter the sept. "What is happening here?" He demanded.

"They are destroying our sept, father," Lyonel said.

"They stand between us and the sept, my king," the Red Woman said, and Shireen's jaw dropped. Had father ordered this? How could he? His faith may never have been strong, but he knew that her faith and Lyonel's and mother's were.

"Father," she gasped, rushing over as Lyonel lowered his bow, a bewildered expression on his face. "You didn't... you can't destroy this sept."

Lord Stannis looked at her with his eyes that made her feel like a little girl again. "It is my sept" he replied simply. "It is in my castle, I can do with it as I wish."

"Father!" Lyonel gasped. "You can't!"

"I just said I can," he replied, looking at his son. "When this is your castle, you may rebuild it if you so wish."

"Father-" Lyonel made to object again, but Shireen placed her hand on his elbow and shook her head.

"Father, may we speak, in private?" She asked him.

He looked at her with the eyes he had given her, and nodded. "Lyonel, Shireen, lady Melisandre, you stay. The rest of you out." Slowly, the men filed out. The ones with the hearts on their breasts left at once, the others hesitated, glancing at Lyonel, before following them. When they were alone, he looked at her. "Well, what do you have to say, daughter?" He asked.

She took a breath. She loved her father, she didn't like opposing him, but she had to here. "Why are you doing this, father?" She asked. "Why are you burning the sept?"

He looked at Melisandre. "The Lord of Light requires a sacrifice," she told them. "An offering of these false idols will make him grant his blessing on King Stannis."

Lyonel scoffed. "Only fools and madmen can claim to be so certain of the will of the gods." Stannis held up a finger, and Lyonel fell silent at once.

"What can the Seven offer other than that?" He asked her. "They have only ever taken from me, they killed my parents before my eyes."

She wanted to say that if there was only one god, then that god was what killed her grandparents. But she couldn't say that, she knew that her grandparents deaths still haunted him. "Father, if you destroy the sept, you will lose men and support, and the people will not love you."

"They never loved me," he replied dryly. "How can I lose what I never had?"

She got closer to him and touched his arm. Father was uncomfortable with women, even her and mother, but he was her father, she had to comfort him. "Father, your men do not know this Lord of Light," she told him. "Let them keep their sept, allow them their prayers, and they will care less about your personal choice of faith." She felt like there was ash in her mouth, she hated that she was not fighting for her father's soul, but she knew these were not times of peace. She could convince him of the truth once the war was won.

"Without a sacrifice, the Lord of Light will not favour you," Lady Melisandre warned.

Father's face was often stiff, but it seemed stiffer than usual. "You may keep the sept," he said finally.

"Thank you father," she gasped, and wrapped her arms around him. He endured it for a little, then pushed her away. "Lady Melisandre can take the statues."

"What!" Lyonel replied.

"You may keep the sept," Lord Stannis repeated. "The altars and windows will not be touched," he glanced at the altar and window of the Crone, "any more... But the statues go with the lady Melisandre."

"Father," she begged.

"My King," the Red Woman said at the same time.

"Enough," he said. "That is my decision. And I don't hear either a Lord of Light or a Seven faced god saying anything differently."

He stormed from the sept. Shireen made to follow, but Lyonel caught her arm and pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her. "That is as good as we'll get from him," he whispered into her hair. "We still have the sept, and we can build more statues. We have to know when to retreat."

She felt tears come to her eyes and nodded her face into his tabard on his chest. One day, her father would see the truth. She vowed it.

()()()

Shireen felt out of place at the war councils. But father had asked her there, so she would be there. Lyonel looked more in his element here, and she had moved her chair closer to his, to shield herself from some of the lords bannermen who looked too falsely at a woman at the table.

"The city is being fortified it is true to say," Ser Davos spoke. "We saw spitfires and scorpions being built on the walls, and the ships at the capital are patrolling the rush. But we more than match them in sea power, and the only men they can call upon in the city are the gold cloaks. Cersei Lannister has tripled their number, but most are green, more likely to drop their spears than use them."

"This is our chance, Your Grace," Lord Velaryon said, slamming his hand on the painted table. "We can take the city in one red swoop, seat you upon the Iron Throne."

Lyonel didn't look too impressed with that plan. "You have something to say, Lyonel?" Their father asked.

"It might be that we could take the city. But then what. Lord Tywin Lannister is known to be at Harrenhal with a great host around him. And... uncle Renly," Shireen felt her anger rise, saw her brother's knuckles whiten and heard her father's teeth grind. "He is marching up the Roseroad with a greater host still. We have but five thousand men. We could hold the Rush with our fleet but not the city.

"Mother's house, House Caron, father," she spoke up. Marriage agreements had to mean something, surely uncle Bryce could bring some strength to them.

"House Caron consented to a meeting, Princess," Davos told her, earnestly. "I was able to treat with them and many other Storm Lords, but I got only words from them all."

Her father's teeth ground again. "Of course you did," he said. "The bold lords see Renly as their liege, and flock to join his growing strength, hoping for a share of the spoils, but the craven sit to see who will win the conflict. None of them support me in this war. Besides, House Caron could add it's three thousand men to us but Renly would still have ten men for every one of mine." Shireen shook her head. Partly at the desperation of their situation, and partly in awe at how her father could speak the numbers of men that any house could call upon from memory.

"We may be able to get support," their mother said, she was sat on the other side of Stannis to Lyonel and herself. "Shireen and Lyonel, many would be happy to provide an heir to the throne should you win."

"Should I win," Stannis repeated. "None will see that as a possibility. I had hoped the Targaryen girl might get me some support, but now she is gone. Who is there that can match the numbers I already face. Shireen is too old for me to consider betrothing her to the Arryn boy, on the off chance that he lives long enough to breed, and the Martells hated Robert too much to put their princess in Lyonel"s bed. I had hoped to possibly win the Reach, but they have joined with Renly, it seems. And Robb Stark is now pledged to a Frey girl, and as for the Greyjoys..." He grunted. Robb Stark, she remembered the handsome boy she had danced with in Winterfell. She could have married him and been somewhat content, or Willas Tyrell, but both chances were now gone. She well remembered her time back in the North. The Starks had seemed so happy, at peace, a castle full of laughter and joy. Then a boy had fallen from a window and the world had changed. She could understand seeking justice for the death of their father, Lords Tristan and Robb were two of a tight knit family, but seeking to rip two Kingdoms from her father... her father had never done anything to them. Perhaps they would come to their senses when they contacted them. She hoped so. It left a sinking feeling to think of such a family as traitors. But if they were then they were, and her father would see to them.

He sighed. "Enough of this," he said. "I will think more on it myself. Leave us," he said, and his lords bowed, getting to their feet to depart. "Not you," he said, and his family sat back down with Ser Davos and Melisandre, "you are us."

"Shireen, read the letter to me," he said.

Shireen coughed, picking up the letter.

 _All men know me for the trueborn son of Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm"s End, by his lady wife Cassana of House Estermont. I declare upon the honour of my House that my beloved brother Robert, our late king, left no trueborn issue of his body, the boy Joffrey, the boy Tommen, and the girl Myrcella being abominations born of incest between Cersei Lannister and her brother Jaime the Kingslayer. By right of birth and blood, I do this day lay claim to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Let all true men declare their loyalty. Done in the Light of the Lord, under the sign and seal of Stannis of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm._

"That is as you requested father," she said. She had a number of complaints about it, but she let her father speak first.

"Robert wasn't my beloved brother," their father said. "I had no love for him, nor he for me."

"Father," she said. "It is a harmless courtesy."

"A lie," her father said, flatly. "Take it out, and I believe Jaime Lannister is, despite all else, an anointed knight, put ser in there." She made the changes. She loved her father, and his desire for the truth. But this letter would be thrown out as a lie by most anyway, and to others is would be a passing curiosity. But Robert had been well loved; not saying that he did so as well might hinder her father.

"What of that last line, your grace," Ser Davos spoke up. "Done in the Light of the Lord?"

"What of it?" her father asked.

Davos chewed on his answer. "It sounds foreign," he said. Shireen agreed. But too say, done in the light of the Seven would be another lie that her father would not countenance. "Perhaps, done in the sight of gods and men."

"People do not love me, Ser Davos, I am not trying to win their love, only their fealty. Keep the truth about the Red God in there, then have Pylos and Cressen copy the letter. Have them send it out to as many holdfasts as we have ravens. Ser Davos, you will deliver letters along the coast, up the Crownlands and into the Vale and White Harbour. Have one of your sons do the same along the southern coast, all the way to Dorne, those who hear it shall spread the tale further. Let no man plead ignorance as an excuse. Don't send them at once though, wait for them all to be done. I want the realm to hear it before the Lannisters can come up with a response. Lyonel, have the fleet screen the Seaworth ships, do not let them fall to a royal force leaving the Rush."

"It will be done father," he said, bowing his head.

Lord Stannis got to his feet. "We're done for now," he said. "Come wife." Their mother passed them by, kissing them each on the top of the head on her way out, and Ser Davos followed his lord and lady, leaving Lyonel and Shireen alone.

Lyonel took her hand. "What Ser Davos said," he whispered, even though the door was shut. "Put that in instead."

She looked at him alarmed. "Against father's orders?" She asked.

"No," he said. "Father only said to tell the truth. What Ser Davos said, can you claim it untrue?"

She thought and then smiled, adding in the additional change. "Is that thinking like the son of a King?" He asked her teasingly.

"More like one than before," she agreed. "But when you were in the Sept... that was you as the Prince of the Realm, Lyonel, I was never more proud of you."

He looked down. "I should have done more," he whispered.

"You did as much as could be expected of you, you said it yourself, know when to retreat." She got to her feet, taking her letter with the corrections on it up as well. She wrapped her arms around Lyonel from behind, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. "We'll set things to right," she said. "Once father has won the war."

He patted her hand affectionately. "Together," he replied. "Together we can save the realm... and father."


	34. Book 2 Loren I

King's Landing. Loren had not seen the city in some time, not, in fact, since the third name day of King Robert's youngest child. He doubted the boy remembered him well, or the others for that matter.

"Well," Tyrion said from behind him. "Here we are."

"Here we are indeed," Loren accepted. He could see trickles of ant-sized people moving towards the many gates of the city, a banner of twinned lions and stags flew from the Wall. What rank madness; with Renly Baratheon claiming the crown as Robert's brother, Robert's son should be flying the banner of his father, remind the people who ruled them. He thought back to the day of the Sack of King's Landing. He had been father's squire then, watching as the Lannister host sacked the city. Lions flew from the walls that day as well, and he doubted many people from that day forgot it.

Tyrion pointed out alongside the Rush. "Look," he said. "It would seem to be the case that the king is hosting a tourney on this fine summer's day."

"Why today, what should he be celebrating?" Loren asked his brother.

Tyrion raised an eyebrow at him. "Why brother, it is our dear nephew's name day, had you forgotten."

Loren scoffed. "That would imply I knew or cared in the first place," he shook his head. "Madness, to be hosting a tourney at this time. Still, he is the king, as his new councillors, we should go and make ourselves known to him."

"Lead on, brother," Tyrion said, and Loren put his spurs to his horse, his men and Tyrion's clansmen and sellsword, following on behind.

A pair of riders, Loren hesitated to call them knights, were riding at each other. One of them bore the bloody spear his father had so railed against. But this was no Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks, if they had knighted one of his sons... He shook his head.

The crowd parted as he and his party rode towards the royal box. He saw the Hound standing faithfully by his master's side, a white cloak flowing from his shoulders. The king was sat, bored and pouty, with wine in his hand and a large crown on his head. On his left was his betrothed, the Lady Sansa Stark, judging by the red hair she shared with her mother and eldest brother. Beside her was another girl, perhaps two years older, but he recognised the look of her at once. It was the Targaryen girl. Her hair was silver and even from a distance he could see her purple eyes. She had seemed so much younger when her brother had pleaded for the Company's support to take back the Iron Throne, and they had turned him down sharply. But her brother was dead now, killed in Dothraki attack on Pentos, and she had been spirited away. Stannis Baratheon had found her in his harbour, and sent her to his brother. She had arrived not long before the King himself died. He didn't know that Robert had ever seen the girl. Since she was alive, he would guess not. On the other side of the king were his younger siblings, Tommen and Myrcella, and though they had golden hair and green eyes, they looked alien to him.

They all looked over when he and Tyrion approached, their men holding back a little. He dismounted and walked over. "Who are you?" The boy king demanded, and his brother looked confused as well, who was this moustached individual who had come before them. But the Princess seemed to remember him. "Uncle Loren?" She asked.

"Yes Princess, it is I," he replied, and the Princess rushed over and hugged him tightly around the middle.

"We haven't seen you in years," she squealed, releasing him and backing away, looking up at him with wide eyes.

He nodded. "It has been... long," he said.

"We heard you were in the east," the King said.

"I was," Loren confirmed. "But now I am here."

"And we thought you might be on the battlefield," Tyrion said, waddling up beside him and kissing the princess on the cheek. "But you were nowhere to be found."

Joffrey shifted uncomfortably. "I've been here, ruling the Kingdoms, but don't you worry, uncle, I intend to face Robb Stark myself."

Loren would like to see that.

Tyrion then looked at Sansa. "My lady, I am sorry for your loss."

"Her loss," Joffrey snarled. "Her father was a confessed traitor."

"Yet still her father," Tyrion replied. "Surely, having so recently lost your own father, you can sympathise with her plight."

"We have a whole box full of mourners, Tyrion," Loren reminded him. "His grace and his siblings have lost their father, they may soon lose their uncle Jaime, Lady Sansa's father has also left us and," he raised a glass of wine, liberated from a servant, to Daenerys, "I believe this one has lost a brother."

"Yes, uncle," Joffrey said. "We are all mourners here."

Tyrion nodded.

"Well, Tyrion, we should be going. Enjoy your name day, your grace," he said, bowing his head. "We would love to be able to stay and celebrate with you, however, there is work to be done. Come Tyrion." He returned to his horse and mounted, waiting for Tyrion to do the same.

"What work?" Joffrey asked. "Why are you here?"

"We are to defend your city for you, Your Grace." Tyrion called from atop his horse. "Nothing more." Loren turned his horse and began riding for the city, the Red Keep and his sweet, foolish sister.

* * *

Such a force of men met no opposition as they rode the streets to the Red Keep and dismounted in the courtyard. "My Lords," a Lannister man said, his armour strong and head bowed. "We... we did not expect you."

"Indeed," Loren replied "well then... who are you?"

"Vylarr, my lord I command the Lannister men in the keep."

"Vylarr," he repeated, he would try to remember that. "Where could I find my sister, the Queen Regent?"

"She... I believe there is a small council meeting."

Loren nodded. "Carry on, Vylarr, come Tyrion, let us go and prevent more bungling of the realm."

Outside the small council meeting, as was custom, was a knight of the Kingsguard, in gleaming white plate. "Ser Mandon," Tyrion greeted cordially. "Would you be so kind as to open the door for us, I fear we are late for the meeting."

Ser Mandon did not appear to want to move, so he stepped forward. "Ser Mandon, perhaps you didn't hear my brother. We are late for the meeting and would like to pass."

"My lords, the small council-" he began.

"Is down several members," he finished for the knight. "We are here to fill some of those seats, by order of Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister. Now... open the door, if you please."

After a moment"s hesitation, Ser Mandon stepped aside. Loren turned to his guards. "Remain out here," he said, "until the meeting is done." His sister may be a fool, but she was the Queen regent, he needed her to accept him with at least some level of willingness, which would be harder if she was surrounded by his men. Together, he and Tyrion entered the small council chamber.

The council looked around as the two new Lannisters entered the room. His sister looked alarmed at his presence and angry at Tyrion's, the bald cockless wonder looked passing curious, the master of coin smiled openly at their intrusion, the Grand Maester looked too tired to even look his way, and the last face was unknown to him, but the bloody spear brooch that fastened his cloak at the shoulder indicated that Janos Slynt had been granted a council seat as a reward for betrayal. "Don't get up," Tyrion said as they approached the table and took their seats.

"What are you doing here?" Cersei demanded of them.

Loren could see that Tyrion was about to make some jape or other, and he had no patience for it. "You find yourself lacking a Hand of the King and a Master of Laws," he said. "We are here to fill those gaps in your council."

"Father is Hand of the King, and I have named no Master of Laws," Cersei insisted.

"Father is at Harrenhal trying to organise the war with Robb Stark," Loren said. "By his decree, we are here."

"He cannot do that. Not without Joff's consent," Cersei bristled.

"As I said, he is at Harrenhal, if you wish to take this up with him, I will give you our fastest horses."

The other council members were silent throughout the exchange. "Get out," Cersei told them. "I would speak with my brothers alone."

The others heard the venom in her voice, and left at once, Loren didn't move, only stared at her. She got up to take seats closer to them. "I would like to know how you tricked father into this."

"We didn't trick father," Loren replied. "We are not the Stark twins, if you don't believe us, go and take it up with him at Harrenhal. But you have only yourself to blame for this."

"Me?" Cersei replied, shocked. "I've done nothing."

"Therein lies the greatest problem," Loren replied curtly. "You did nothing when your son called for Ned Stark's head, now his sons are out for blood."

"That was Joff," Cersei insisted in self defence, he wanted to smile at the way she was trying to shift blame, his sister never was capable of accepting that she was wrong. "Now he is king, he thinks he can do what he likes, not what he is bid by his council."

"Clearly," Loren replied. Tyrion seemed happy to sip at his wine, watching the two of them spar. It grated on him, but Loren needed to put Cersei in her place. "But not all the failings can be attributed to him alone. Was it you who suggested removing Stannis Baratheon from the council and replacing him with yourself?"

"Why not?" She replied. "I will advise Joff until he comes of age, and Stannis Baratheon is a threat."

Loren nodded, that was a sentiment his father shared. "Perhaps," he said. "But he was also Master of Ships, what fleets have you built, or ships have you commanded that you are qualified for that position. Now Stannis has a brother and a nephew calling himself king and you have snubbed the man so much that he might just declare for Renly, or press his own claim." He shook his head. "And dismissing Ser Barristan? Why?"

"We needed someone to blame for Robert's death, and why not him? He was old. It gives Jaime a seat on the Council and allowed Joffrey to cloak the Hound, and he was always fond of Clegane."

"So instead of Barristan the Bold, hero of Duskendale, veteran of the Trident and the Greyjoy Rebellion, he who slew Maelys the Monstrous in single combat, we have the Hound," he fixed Cersei with a glare. "What will people say when they see Barristan the Bold riding beside Renly, or Stannis, or Robb Stark?"

Cersei paled. "I... I didn't think..."

"Another problem," he said. "But what does that matter, I'm sure that Jaime will do a fine job serving from his cell in Riverrun."

"We can't let them execute him," Cersei said at once.

Loren raised an eyebrow. "We aren't there, if Stark decides to, there is nothing we can do to stop it."

"We have his sister," she insisted. "If they lay a finger on him-"

"Sister?" Tyrion asked. "Not sisters, where's the other one."

Cersei traced her fingers on the desk. "Arya Stark... vanished."

Loren wanted to punch the table. One failing after another, was there no end to incompetence?

"Vanished... in a puff of smoke, or into a magician's hat?" Tyrion asked. "We had three Starks to trade, one has lost his head, and another is just lost." He chuckled. "My my, we are in a deep puddle of shit, aren't we."

Cersei looked at them both. "Father may have named you, but he is not here, as you point out. If I declare you false, you will be thrown in the dungeon."

"My men will not permit it," Loren replied calmly. "But you could try, though I think it wouldn't serve you. We are not here to fight you, Cersei, we are here to defend the city."

She was in thought now. He could continue insulting her for her incompetence, but he would let her have a small victory now, if it got her approval for him to serve as Hand. He needed it... for now. "If I accept you, you shall be the King's Hand in name, but my Hand in truth. You will share all your plans and intentions with me before you act, and you will do nothing without my consent. Do you understand?"

He nodded. "Completely. We are at your service sister, we live to serve the King and his regent."

She seemed satisfied and got to her feet. "As Hand," she said to him. "You may call for the next meeting, when you are ready. I suppose you wish to see to the defences of the city."

"Most certainly," he said, and Tyrion voiced his assent as well.

Cersei left, pleased with herself, and Loren turned to Tyrion. "Janos Slynt," he said to him. "You saw the state of the city as we rode through?"

Tyrion nodded. "Very corpsy, and little order."

He nodded. "We'll have to do something about that," he said. "I could name a Lannister knight to the commander of the City Watch, but they will likely serve better with one of their own. Find me a capable officer we can promote, and devise some way to get rid of Slynt."

Tyrion smiled and nodded. "But of course, my lord Hand. And what shall you be doing."

"I have to see to the defences," he said. "Renly to the west, Robb Stark to the north and Stannis Baratheon at Dragonstone, still a threat," I have to see what our defences are like, and improve them, we must be ready to repel any attack against us."

He was determined that his tenure as Hand be successful, that he prove himself capable. That would only be possible if he was able to defend the city. If it fell, so did he.


	35. Book 2 Tristan I

_Fapman: Well they'll be in the same city, whether or not time will give them the chance or they'll take it is another matter._

 _BLACK-OP1: Well he hasn't done anything illegal yet, we know he's written the letters and is planning to take the throne, but they don't and you can't name someone an enemy of the crown without cause._

 _Anon: I think survival is more in their interests than escaping, but there are still some Targaryen loyalists around who can help Dany if they are brave enough._

* * *

Tristan didn't remember Riverrun well. He had wanted to pass by it on the way to the tourney of Highgarden with Domeric, but the Bolton heir had insisted on riding down the Kingsroad, which would be quicker than going through the heart of the Riverlands, and avoid having to pay the massive tolls of the Twins. So he had not been here since his birth, but what a sight it was. From every tower the trout of Tully flew, coupled with the beautiful Direwolf of Stark. The camp outside was hosting the six thousand horse that his brother could call upon to fight the war, the veterans of the Whispering Wood and the battle of the camps. He wished he could count himself in that number, but no matter, now he was here, his brother no doubt wanted him to ride alongside him for the next campaign. He crossed the drawbridge of Riverrun and entered the castle, dismounting in the courtyard. "Elmar," he called to his young squire. "Take the horses. Theon, let's go find our new king."

"Gods," Theon muttered, grinning. "I wonder how he'll act, now that he's got a crown."

Tristan shrugged. "Who can say?" He asked. "But Robb will be Robb, that much I have faith in."

A man in steward's robes greeted them as they approached the keep. "Lords Tristan and Theon?" He asked, and they nodded. "His Grace, King Robb, has requested your presence."

He escorted them to the great hall of Riverrun. When they arrived, a man in the twin towers of Frey was being dragged out by the Greatjon's men. "That will bode well for his wife," Theon chuckled.

Inside, Robb was sat on the great chair, his furs around him and smiling as they watched the Frey leave. But his smile grew when he saw Tristan. On top of his head was a crown. Not gold, as was worn in the south, but a circlet of bronze with nine iron spikes shaped like longswords. "Tristan," Robb called down to him, getting to his feet. "You came!"

"You called," he replied, greeting Robb in a fierce hug. They pulled apart, and then Tristan remembered. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head, "Your Grace."

Robb laughed and dragged him to his feet. "Come," he said, clapping him on the shoulder. "I would hear of how you fared from your own mouth. And we have matters to discuss."

With that, Robb dismissed all but himself, Theon, Tristan and the Direwolves. "So," he said, sitting back down, taking off his newly forged crown and rubbing his temples. "This battle against Tywin Lannister, I hear not all went well."

Tristan shook his head. "No, the Lannisters were able to press us hard, and we couldn't make up the difference against their knights." He clapped Theon on the shoulder. "It's only thanks to Theon that we survived, he raided the baggage train, forcing the Lannister reserves back long enough for us to retreat. We all owe him our lives." Theon couldn't stop himself looking smug at that.

"He seems to have suffered for it," Robb commented, indicating the deep scar on Theon's left cheek that marred his handsome Greyjoy features. "A Lannister blade, Theon?"

Theon shook his head. "I owe your brother for this one," he said. "When he heard about Lord Eddard's death..."

Tristan felt his fingernails dig deep into his palms.

"You attacked Theon?" Robb asked, incredulous.

Tristan shook his head. "No, I was attacking a tree, Theon and others tried to stop me. If you think that's bad, you haven't seen the tree." He had beaten his blade blunt against the tree, hacking off chunks of bark and cutting deep gouges and furrows into the wood. Theon and four men had to wrestle him down. "Or the Lannisters... when I get my hands on Joffrey, he will wish he was flayed."

"With some fortune, Joffrey will die, Tristan, I intend to see that through. But even if he doesn't, we will take two kingdoms from him." Tristan looked at Robb. That wasn't enough. He needed Joffrey to die, he wanted to taste his blood and feed his carcass to Shield and Nymeria. He wanted to slice off those red wormy lips and gouge out his eyes, rip out his tongue and strangle him with his own entrails. That was all he deserved. "Tristan, I am King in the North now, I have to protect my people, and I will do so in father's name." He shrugged off Robb's hand. He would follow his twin, as was his place. But if he got his chance to kill Joffrey, nothing would stop him. "Theon," Robb said. "I'm sorry, but can I speak with Tristan alone."

"Time for the twins," the cocksure Greyjoy said, grinning and nodding. "Of course," he bowed before Robb and left the room, closing the door behind him.

"Tristan," he said, when they were alone, hugging him again. "I wish we had more time together, but I have remained still and silent for long enough. Now I have delivered my peace terms to King Joffrey-"

"What!" He demanded. Peace! No, it was too soon for peace, he hadn't shed enough Lannister blood by half.

"Don't worry," he said, placing his hand on her shoulder. "The Queen Regent will never consent to them. I mean to make the Lannisters pay in blood before the war ends."

He nodded to his brother. "We both will."

Robb sighed and shook his head. "Not together, at least, not at first. I have a task for you."

His eyes narrowed. "What task? Unless you want someone carved up, you had best send someone else."

"I don't think so," he said. "I think for this task, you are the best suited man I have. I am sending you to negotiate with Renly Baratheon."

He must have heard wrongly. That was exactly the sort of thing he was worst at. "Renly Baratheon?" He asked.

Robb nodded. "Of everyone I have, you are the one who met him most recently."

"In passing," he replied. They had met at Darry, but had never said so much as three words to each other. They may have greeted each other, but that was all.

"That is more than any other," he said. "Mother met Renly Baratheon as a child, not since. Besides," he said, glancing around. "Mother wants to get our sisters back, more than anything. I fear if I send her to Renly Baratheon, she will make an arrangement that is unfavourable to me and my realm. To us all. I want Sansa and Arya back," he added, defending himself. "But I can't surrender the Kingdom of the North to do so."

Tristan nodded. "I see," he said. "But of all our allies, why Renly Baratheon?"

"He is the only one we can reach," he said. "Aunt Lysa is in the Vale, walled by stone and steel, and Tywin Lannister stands between us and her. She is not like to join us anyhow. I have sent a dozen ravens from as many holdfasts, not one reply has come to us. The Martells of Dorne may hold no love for the Lannisters, but they are too far south. That leaves Renly Baratheon as our only chance. Well... Renly Baratheon... and Balon Greyjoy."

"Greyjoy," Tristan repeated. "You mean to negotiate with him? Who are you sending?"

"Theon," Robb replied. "Theon will be the best man to negotiate with his father."

He nodded. He saw the sense in it, only Theon really knew the Ironborn. Besides, they had rebelled against the Baratheon kings once before, now they had a chance to do it again, a better chance.

"Okay, Theon is going to the Greyjoys, but aside from my brief encounter with Renly Baratheon, is there any reason why you think sending me is a good idea?"

"There are a number of reasons," Robb said. "Renly has crowned himself king now, sending someone lesser might be perceived as an insult. And you know his wife's family."

Tristan's breath hitched. "Who?" He asked, praying that Robb wasn't about to say the name he thought he was.

"Margaery Tyrell," Robb replied, shattering Tristan's hopes.

"Robb," he said quietly. "I am your twin, your younger twin, and you are my king. If you order me to go, I will, but I beg you, please don't. Please."

"Tristan," Robb said, calmly. "I know you want to be with me in the war. I want to be with you as well. But Renly Baratheon's host in said to number over one hundred thousand. If we can get his support, we will win. Unless there's another reason why you don't want to go, I need you."

Tristan closed his eyes. What happened at Highgarden still haunted his dreams from time to time, though time was seemingly mending the wound. But if he told Robb... he couldn't lose his brother's love or trust, they meant everything to him. "No," he said quietly. "I'll go, Robb." He would deal with the scorn of the Reachmen during the negotiations, if it kept him in his brother's graces.

"Thank you," his twin replied, pressing their foreheads together. Tristan held the back of his brother's neck as Robb did the same to him.

"What are you going to be doing?" He asked Robb.

"I must ride," he said. "I have been still too long. I'll give Theon his instructions and then we depart."

"Be careful," he warned Robb. "Tywin Lannister is dangerous, and I didn't see the Riverlords marshalled outside Riverrun."

"I let them go home," Robb said. "Clear Lannister garrisons off their lands. Uncle Edmure insisted. And I said nothing about Tywin Lannister."

"Where then?" Tristan asked.

"West" he replied. "Another Lannister host is being marshalled at Casterly Rock. Granduncle Brynden believes that Tywin Lannister is waiting on them. I agree. I will smash it and repay the Lannisters for what they have done to the Trident."

His mouth watered at the prospect. "I'll come and join you when I'm done," he said.

"No. When done, you'll return to your host. Tywin will have to leave Harrenhal to answer my challenge. When he departs Harrenhal, you must lead your men to seize it from behind him. Harrenhal is a valuable seat, take it and we can protect our flank."

Once again, he would be parted from his brother. "As you command, Robb." He said. "I'll hold Harrenhal and cut Tywin Lannister off from King's Landing." Then it dawned on him. "You mean to have Renly Baratheon seize it in the meantime."

Robb nodded. "If so, he can rid us of Joffrey the Queen and two of her brothers in one fell swoop. But you must not tell him this. Do not reveal our hand to him."

"Why not?"

"Because if you tell him that then we have no bargaining power," Robb explained. "We will just be giving him King's Landing, he'll have no reason to ally with us since we'll be doing it anyway."

Tristan saw that much. "Okay, I won't mention it."

Robb nodded. "Now I must make preparations with Brynden and the others. You should see to mother."

"I will," he said. "But there is something I must do first."

"What?" Robb asked.

Tristan looked aside, after his brother's perfect victories, how could he look him in the eye. "Daryn's father, Lord Harys," he said. "In my failed battle, he fell, I brought his bones, Daryn should decide what to do with them."

His brother seemed to understand. "Just make sure you go and see mother when you're done," he said.

"I will," he promised.

He found Daryn and Domeric crossing blades in the courtyard. "As good as ever," he commented, approaching them, Nymeria and Shield at his side. "But still not as good as me."

They turned to him. "Tristan!" Domeric called, approaching him and gripping him in a fierce embrace, and Daryn did the same, holding him tightly.

"It's good to see you again," he told them both. "And as for you," he said, smacking Domeric's shoulders. "I hear my brother owes you his life."

"I it wasn't me, it would have been another," Domeric replied, modestly.

"Doesn't change the fact," Daryn said. "You took the Kingslayer from his saddle."

Tristan remembered that Lord Bolton had threatened to smile when they had heard the news. His son had captured Jaime Lannister. It was enough to make any lord proud. "I wish I had news as good," he said, turning to Daryn and struggling to meet his eye. Be beckoned the guardsmen over, who brought the heavy wooden chest with them. "I'm sorry Daryn," he said. "But your father... did not survive the battle with Tywin Lannister."

Daryn looked crestfallen. "I heard," he said. "I wish I'd been there in his final moments," he said. "Are these...?"

Tristan nodded. "They are, I brought his bones, I wasn't sure what you would want done with them."

Daryn ran his fingers over the oaken box. "Thank you," he said. "I... must think... perhaps have some men return them."

"We may need every man for the war," Domeric reminded him.

"I'm sure Ser Edmure would let you keep them here until we're ready to return them," Tristan said. "But think it over," he added. "And please, keep protecting my brother."

"We aren't going with him," Domeric said. "He is entrusting us with keep you safe in the south."

Tristan wanted to feel insulted that Robb didn't think he could handle himself, and was throwing away the protection he had given him. But he was glad to have his friends riding beside him again. If only Cley were here, they would ride as four. He wondered how Cley's father fared, for he had been made prisoner by the battle that had killed Daryn's father. "I look forward to it," he said. "But I must now speak with mother. We'll talk later," he said.

They nodded and waved him off.

Negotiation, then taking an undefended castle. At this rate he'd never meet the Lannisters in battle again for the rest of the war.


	36. Book 2 Daenerys I

"It's okay," she whispered into the mane of auburn hair that was shaking in her arms. "You'll be fine, it's okay." She stroked Sansa Stark and held her close, whispering calming words into her ear so that she might better bear the pain of torment. The Usurper"' son, Joffrey Baratheon... no... not the Usurper's son, that would get her beaten worse... King Joffrey had sent men to them again. She wasn't sure of the reason this time, but whenever something bad happened, Joffrey proved his power over them. She knew the type... he was just like her brother, and her brother was rotting at the bottom of Pentos' harbour. She would never have wished that on her brother, he was a victim of his circumstance, but Joffrey... how she wished the same man who had come to seize her from Pentos would come again. She had had many sweet dreams of Lyonel"s arrow punching right through the middle of Joffrey's smug, arrogant face, as he sat on the Iron Throne.

She had arrived in the city just as the Usurper breathed his last, and had hoped that would be the end of it, that his heirs wouldn't hate her with such brutality. But perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps the Usurper would have been better than this. He couldn't be much worse.

They kept their tears for each other. No other needed to see them. It was a victory, of sorts that they were able to keep themselves strong for each other no one else knew, not Joffrey, not the Queen, not anyone. Sansa hiccupped the last of her tears away as she wiped her eyes. "What happened?" she asked. "What happened this time?"

Daenerys shook her head. "I don't know," she confessed. They rarely knew; the only time they had known his uncle, the man who had murdered her father, had been captured by Sansa's brother. She had made Sansa look at her dead father's head, and she had not been left off. "You should feel grateful, my lady," he said to her, "had my father been here, he would have caved in your chest with his warhammer, like he did your brother's. It is my mercy that lets you live, and don't you forget it."

They remained that way for a while, just until Sansa had recovered. Then they continued their stitches from the day before, and the day before that and the day before that. She had been on the run for most of her life. She had never learned the arts that women so prized here, not once. Ser Willem Darry had let her play and run around in the house with the Red Door in Braavos, but stitches, singing, prayers, these were things she had never learned. Then she was to be sold to a Dothraki Horselord who would ride and breed her like a mare. But now she was here she had to learn other things. She could help Sansa to bear the pain of Joffrey's cruel torments, and Sansa could teach her how to be a woman of Westeros.

It did not come naturally to her. Her stitches were crooked and uneven. Sansa told her that her sister's stitches were the same and she had been doing them for as long as she had been forced to. These things took time.

The door shook with three heavy knocks. "Who is it?" She asked, wary. Joffrey had already had them beaten today, had he decided he hadn't had enough yet? She touched at the bruises on her arms as the reply came through the wood. "It's Lord Tyrion Lannister, my ladies." Relief flooded her. She'd seen many dwarfs in menageries in the east, but Lord Tyrion was kind and decent, at least he supposed to be, Sansa had warned her that his sister had been the same. She couldn't trust these Lannisters, they were still the family that murdered her nephew and niece in cold blood; not this dwarf, not his aloof and distant brother and certainly not the Queen Regent. But at least Lord Tyrion didn't seem to want to hurt them. "Are you decent my ladies?"

"We... we are," Dany replied. The door opened and the dwarf lord with his misshapen head and mismatched eyes waddled through, a rough looking sellsword at one shoulder and a hideous woman with ears hanging around her neck on a string at the other. "My ladies," Lord Tyrion said graciously matching his tone with his respectful bow. "I apologise for the behaviour of my nephew, he disgraces the very throne he sits upon. Unfortunately there is little I can do to stop him, or my sister."

"Th-the Queen, what would her grace have of us?" Sansa asked, bowing to Lord Tyrion. She hastily followed Sansa's example, the girl knew more about surviving here than she did.

Lord Tyrion smiled sadly. "Not the Lady Daenerys, only you, my lady," he said. "The Queen has invited you to meet with her, and this is not an invitation that is easily refused. I tried but..." He shook his head. "I am to take you to her at once."

"What about me?" Dany blurted out. "My lord," she added hastily.

"My sister would have you remain here and be done, but I have arranged for you to walk the grounds with Ser Aron. He will keep you safe, under order of the Hand of the King, no man under the lion is to harm you, but he will be certain."

"Ser Aron?"

"Me, my lady." Another man entered the room. He was tall and lithe, with a leopard on his surcoat, slicked brown hair and olive skin. A dornishman. "Ser Aron Santagar, master at arms of the Red Keep."

"Ser Aron will walk with you," Lord Tyrion repeated. "Now, Lady Sansa, we must come at once."

She let Sansa's fingers slip through her own as she was escorted away by Lord Tyrion.

"Come, my lady," Ser Aron said with a welcoming smile, stepping aside and gesturing through the door. There is much of the castle you have yet to see and that you should see."

Not seeing any way of refusing, Dany nodded and stepped out of the safe walls of her and Sansa's chambers and into the hellpit of red stone built by Maegor the Cruel and occupied by lion men.

Ser Aron led her through the keep, neither of them speaking so much as a word. What should she say to this man. All she knew was his name and possibly where he was from, that was it, if he wanted to speak to her, no doubt he would. But where was he leading her? She'd thought he'd take her outside, to the grounds, as Lord Tyrion had said, but instead they were going deep into the bowels of the keep, down winding staircases, past stoic lionmen guards and fluttering banners bearing the sigil of Lannister lion and Baratheon Stag intertwined. As they got lower they passed flaring torches that cast their crooked and cackling shadows on the walls.

Shortly they reached a stiff iron door. "Where are we going?" She asked tentatively.

"To see your history, everyone should know where they came from," Ser Aron said. He pulled out a heavy key and unlocked the door, which swung open with a heavy creak. "Come," he said.

She followed him down one last staircase into a wide, cavernous room. Along one wall were heavy wooden casks and with them the smell of wine heavy and thick in the air. Some kind of wine cellar? What did her ancestors have to do with wine. Her heart dropped. This was some kind of sick jest, perhaps her father had been drunk when he fathered her, that was no doubt it. Had they not jested enough at her expense?

But they moved past the wine casks and through a second door and her eyes opened wide.

Dragon skulls lined the walls, half hidden in alcoves, the black bones still gleaming sharp and fierce, the fangs curved and deadly in a grimacing vindictive smile. "Dragons," she breathed.

"Indeed," Ser Aron said. "They used to hang on the walls of the throne room in your father's day, looking down on the petitioners. King Robert couldn't stand the sight of them, had them taken down here, out of sight and mind."

She couldn't help but approach the nearest of them, a large black mass of fang and jaw and empty eye sockets. She brushed her fingers over the iron hard bone and she could feel the heat of a thousand gouts of dragonflame, almost hear the screams of those who had dared stand against it.

"That's Sunfyre," Ser Aron told her. "The dragon of Aegon the second, said to be the most beautiful of all dragons seen over Westeros. He fed his sister, the rebel Queen Rhaenyra to Sunfyre near the end of the Dance of the Dragons." She recoiled her hand sharply at the thought. Her brother may have gotten angry with her, but he would never have fed her to a dragon. "Come," Aron commanded. "There is another skull you must see."

He led her along to the end of the cellar to find a skull large enough to swallow a horse as she might swallow a grape, the fangs were as long as swords and gleamed with a sharpness and danger. She didn't need to ask who's skull this was, there was only one possible dragon it could be. "Balerion the Black," she breathed.

"Aegon the Conqueror's steed," Ser Aron confirmed. "In his fire was the Iron Throne forged and the kingdoms bent."

She ran her hands along the bone and felt something wrong. "Somethings wrong with his jaw," she said.

"That's where Lord Stannis" son took the material for the bows he forged for himself and his sister." Ser Aron told her. She suppressed a gasp, she knew well enough that mentioning Lord Stannis might bring her more attention, and any more attention than she already had could be the death of her. But Lord Stannis" son had killed her brother. Had he done it with the bow made from Balerion's jaw?

She shook herself, there was more here than dragon skulls, there had to be, that surely couldn't be the only reason that she had been brought down here.

"Why did you bring me here?" She asked.

Ser Aron flashed her a smile. "Do not fear, princess," he said. "I am not trying to deceive or harm you, you have a right to know and find your past should you ever need to return here."

"Why would I need to return here?" Dany asked, confused.

"I cannot say, but anything can happen in these walls, I learned that a long time ago." After a pause, the knight spoke up again. "Shall we go now, princess?" He said. "There is much of the castle that you have left to see."

They returned to the winding stairs, Dany casting her eyes back at the beasts of her ancestors before following him up to the light of her prison.


	37. Book 2 Loren II

_Somebody: Given the spoilers that would come from me answering most of those, I'll simply say read on._

* * *

Being the King's Hand was a curse sometimes, even more so when Cersei Lannister sat in the place of the king, and especially after she had received a very personal insult. "This is villainy!" She shrieked. "Villainy and treason, and it reaches us here in the city."

 _No doubt you would be twice as furious if you found out later and had not been informed now,_ Loren thought.

"The first letter came from Maester Frenken at Stokeworth," the Grand Maester said, gently pushing the letter forwards. "The second was delivered by Lord Gyles of Rosby," he added. The second letter was worded the same as the first, although it looked to be penned by a different hand.

"If Stannis has bothered with them, likely as not, every lord in the realm has at least heard the contents, even if they haven't seen them," Littlefinger said.

"I want these letters burned, every one," Cersei declared. "No hint of this must reach my son's ears, or my father's."

"Father has probably heard already," Tyrion reminded Cersei. "If Stannis didn't send a letter to both Casterly Rock and Harrenhal I would be shocked. And even if not, there are other castles nearby that likely have received one as well."

Varys gave a slight cough. "My birds report that knights in as many towns as ports read the letter aloud, much of the smallfolk will have heard it and their lords will hear the rumours as well."

"What does it matter?" Loren added. "It is said now and it is not as dire as you would think."

"Not dire!" Cersei turned on him. "The boy Joffrey, he calls him, and his accusations against me, they are disgusting."

"Stannis needs his claim," Loren said. "This is it. He can hardly go and claim the throne from Robert's eldest trueborn son, can he? So he names him a bastard."

"I will not suffer to be labelled a whore!"

"He didn't," Loren replied, making the table look at him. "He called you an incestuous slut and a petty, arrogant weak repugnant woman, though not in so many words. He never called you a whore."

"Do not treat this so lightly!" Cersei demanded of him. _What is Cersei so scared of?_ He wondered. _She didn't even react to that._

He sighed. "He could say that I got a lion tattooed on my cock in the east and I wouldn't treat it any more heavily. This is gossip, let it run it's course for a week or more, then let it be done. Other topics of conversation shall arise and this rumour will be quickly forgotten." _Unless we lose,_ he thought, _then lie becomes truth and truth becomes false._

"You would have us do nothing?" Cersei asked.

"Your brother has the right of it, Your Grace," Littlefinger said, his grey eyes glinting. "Rather than try to fight this minor fire, let it die out. In the meantime, light one of our own."

Cersei fixed him with a measured stare. "What kind of fire?"

"One of a similar nature to his own," Littlefinger said.

"We couldn't play the same tale about Stannis Baratheon's children," Tyrion said firmly. "Besides the fact they both look the part of true Baratheons, something that Joff could never claim, Lyonel is an archer of renown, and his sister songs sweeten the streets when she visits the city. They are both well loved."

"But they are rather close to each other are they not?" Littlefinger asked. "They are rarely seen apart."

Loren narrowed his eyes. "You suggest we say that Stannis Baratheon's children are bedding each other?" He asked.

Littlefinger spread his arms like a mummer about to introduce a grand performance. "Stannis Baratheon is already not well loved," he said. "Let his children suffer that ridicule as well. Have the rumour spread that, if Stannis wins, his children will begin the practice of incest again."

"If we say it, it will be forgotten," Tyrion said.

"Others can say it for us," Littlefinger waved the complaint away. "I can have my whores spill it to their clients. It only takes a trickle to start a flood."

"A very short lived flood," Loren said. "If the two are beloved of the people the rumour will not last long."

"We don't need it to last long, brother," Tyrion said. "Only long enough to put out Stannis' own fire."

Loren mulled it over. It wouldn't gain much for them. But if it would satisfy Cersei, and it wouldn't cost them anything to do so... "Very well Lord Baelish," he said. "Have your whores spread the rumours, then wash your hands of it. If we are seen to be slandering the champions of the people, we could give Stannis a ready army for taking the city."

"I shall be discreet, my lord," Littlefinger promised.

He nodded. "Good, now, is there another matter?" He hoped not, he had to prepare the defences of the city, and these Council meetings, while vital, often didn't help him with this.

"There is the matter of the announcement," Cersei said, significantly calmer now they were fighting Stannis with accusations of their own.

He sighed. "I have already said, Cersei, I will not make such an announcement. Ever."

"What harm could it do, my Lord?" Varys asked him innocently, which made him guilty in Loren's eyes, though he wasn't sure what of yet.

He looked at them all. "I _could_ go and sit on the Iron Throne and say, in open court, that we will trade Lord Stark's two daughters for the Kingslayer. But I will not."

"Why not?" Cersei demanded. 2Robb Stark or his mother may consent to that trade, and if not, it doesn't harm us."

"You are wrong," Loren said. 'Robb Stark is calling himself King, and he is as likely to release Jaime for his sisters as I would be to trade my own son away for Joffrey. But what if he did? What if he sent us Jaime in expectation of his sisters, what then? We give him back one and say, I'm sorry Robb Stark, we actually lost your other sister?"

"The realm would be laughing at him if he did," Littlefinger said.

Loren nodded. "They would, for a while, and Stark may face dissent amongst his bannermen. But then the realm would begin to question us. We said that we would trade them both, but we never had them both. We lied. How could our word be trusted again? We have precious few allies as it is, I would like to keep them, and the option to get more. I wouldn't like to be striking an alliance deal only for the other lord to decide that they couldn't trust us to keep our word. And Robb Stark will win another victory and remind his lords who they backed. No. I will not declare that we will make that trade."

"We need to work on getting Jaime back!" Cersei declared. "Every day the Lord Commander is imprisoned is an insult."

"We wouldn't have that problem if Barristan Selmy were still the Lord Commander," he reminded Cersei and she fell back into her chair, huffing like a child. Any of his three daughters would be better suited to that chair than his sister, and two of them hadn't even bled yet "Is there anything else?"

"News from the east, my lord," Varys said.

"Oh," he said, with only passing interest. "Tell me."

Varys bowed his head. "Of course, my lord Hand," he said. "A man claiming to be a dragon has conquered Myr with the help of the Golden Company. He is calling himself king."

"Dragon?" Littlefinger asked, but Loren had to speak up. This wasn't relevant.

"In Essos, half the people there claim to be Valyrian," he said "Half of those that remain claim to be half valyrian and the rest claim a drop or two. It means nothing."

Varys nodded. "I quite agree."

"If there is nothing else...?" He looked to the others, none of whom made to say anything. "Then let us reconvene at a later date."

They all got up and filed towards the door. He sat back in his chair, looking at the ceiling. Sometimes he wished he could find something treasonous on all three of those cretins, and have Ilyn Payne deal with them all. He heard the door shut and slid off the badge of the Hand, tracing his fingers over the warm golden badge of his office. He put the point into the table and spun it between his fingers, thinking about what to do about Renly. He had hoped that Stannis Baratheon would support his nephew, freeing up his eastern flank and allowing him to focus on Renly. That was out of the window. He wondered, had Cersei stripping him from the council done this, or had he always been planning rebellion. No, it had to be opportune, otherwise he would have had to know that Robert was about to die, and Stannis Baratheon was not a visionary. Still, it made him feel good about requisitioning the city's smiths for his boom chain, it was not time wasted from Cersei's swords and spears.

He felt someone watching him and turned, his hand going to his dagger, but it was only his sister. Cersei had shut the door on the others and returned to him, she must have something to say in private.

She took a seat at the table. "I hear you have ordered the smiths of the city to begin work on something, a chain?"

Loren nodded, fixing his gaze on his sister. "I have" he said calmly.

"Why?" She asked, a great deal calmer than she had been when discussing Stannis Baratheon's letter.

"This is no ordinary chain, he said. "It is a boom. I intend to span it across the Rush. That will prevent Stannis Baratheon's fleet from attacking our harbour."

"What good will that do?" She asked. "He could just land a host north of the city."

He nodded. "They could," he admitted. "But the quays are along the Rush, without them, he would have to disembark his host on small boats, and he could never land the whole force at once giving us time to attack them piecemeal. Trust me Cersei, this boom will be of benefit to us. It will serve us far better than a few more hauberks, helms and spears will against Renly Baratheon's host."

"How do you mean to defeat them?" She asked.

"I have plans," he said. It was partly true, he had some ideas, not that many of them would help them when Renly Baratheon's hundred thousand strong host was outside their walls. In truth, he could only hope to delay them until father's host could come south and take them against the walls. If he was going to stop Renly Baratheon, he would have to destroy his siege weapons, prevent him from attacking until the Lannister host could rout him.

Cersei considered that. She seemed convinced. "Very well," she said. "Now, Janos Slynt."

He sighed. He had wondered when Cersei would confront him about that. Tyrion had identified a knight of the watch who would better serve them. Loren had promoted him and had Slynt and his closest officers removed. He had wanted to keep them in the dungeon, but a recruiter for the Night's Watch said he could make better use of them and took them with him to Castle Black. He had wanted to go by ship, but Loren had sent men to seize all ships. He needed them all for the coming battle, war worthy or not, and it wasn't like they would get past Stannis Baratheon's blockade of the Gullet anyway. The Black Brother meant to take them to Maidenpool and get a ship there. He wondered if the ships from Duskendale would be arriving soon, or at all. He had sent the order, but he wouldn't have put it past the Lord of Duskendale to tip off the merchants who came to his port and let them go.

"What about him?" he asked, remembering that Cersei had brought up the former commander of the City Watch.

"What gave you the right to remove him?" She demanded.

"His incompetence," Loren replied. "And he betrayed the last Hand of the King for gold," he added. "Tyrion assures me that his replacement has a spine that is worth more than a few coins. The city was falling to rot under Janos Slynt's oversight," he reminded Cersei. "I sat the Iron Throne not two days ago and food sellers came demanding protection after a baker was baked in his own ovens by an angry mob for overcharging. Order must be restored. Stannis Baratheon is a skilled soldier. Renly may not be, but he is a jouster. Skilled soldiers and jousters know if your thrust meets only softness and weakness, keep on pushing. We must be strong, or we will fall."

Cersei looked him over before nodding. "Very well, keep me informed of all developments." He nodded a lie and watched as she left.

She was replaced by Ser Gerold Lydden. Ser Gerold was a stout man, broad of thigh, arm and shoulder, who shaved his head and face fully to avoid the distractions of grooming. He was also the head of his soldiers, the Hand's personal guards. "My Lord," he said. "The foodsellers in the city have brought the prices you requested."

He nodded, holding out his hand, Ser Gerold placed a scroll in his palm and stood back. "Are there any men of note?" He asked his knight.

"A few knights and men at arms are worth recruiting. I have found four archers as well to be added to your personal guard."

Loren nodded. "Ensure their loyalty, then offer them placements. I'd rather have them myself than let them be gobbled up by my sister or one of the others."

"At once, my lord," he said, bowing and turning on his heel. As the door shut once more, Loren unfurled the scroll. He had fixed the price of varying foodstuffs in the city to allow the people to buy it, as long as there was food to buy. The sellers had complained, but he had told them to bring the actual prices to him, that the crown may pay them the rest of the cost once the war was done. His sister would likely complain, but if they won, it would be just one more debt to pay off, if they lost it would be one more debt for whoever defeated them to pay. First he had to make sure that these prices were right, if they weren't... if they were upping their costs so they would get more money from the crown... he might have to send for Ser Ilyn and make a few examples.

His mind drifted back to Casterly Rock, to Tion, Lelia, Joanna and Myrielle, their smiling faces he had been too long without. And to Alysanne, the wife who was ever dutiful and loving, even after he had run from the Rock. When this war was done he would be with them again... if he won that is.


	38. Book 2 Tristan II

_Daemon Blackwater: I believe that Robb and Lyonel are the only POVs I haven't done in this book yet. But yeah, those other questions would be too spoilery to answer._

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The dawn broke crisp and warm in the Reach. Tristan rolled himself to his feet and stretched, feeling his shoulders and wrists crack and pop and relishing the relief of it. They had not bothered with tents that night, instead finding shelter beneath a small copse of trees and bushes as protection against the rain that never came. He was not the only one rising. Robb had sent him with a noble expedition, ten noble sons from the North and the same number from the Trident. Lords had not been so willing to send their men without protection, so a hundred riders of the North and a similar number of knights and outriders of the Riverlands. They broke their fast on plain, tasteless porridge and bread washing it down quickly. None of them wanted to be here long, they wanted to get back to the fight against the Lannisters, so Tristan hoped to be with Renly Baratheon within the next few days.

They rode in column. He was at the lead, Shield and Nymeria falling into line beside him, as his left, Hal Mollen bore the banner of Winterfell, while the other lordling houses had banners of their own, though dwarfed by the royal one Robb had provided. His few outriders scouted ahead as far as to prevent an immediate ambush, but from what they had heard, war had not come to the Reach, but was making it's slow way out of it, towards King's Landing.

One of his outriders returned. "My lord, in that windmill," he said, pointing to it. "A spotter."

By the time they reached it, the spotter was gone. Shield wasn't acting erratically, so they didn't seem to be in any immediate danger, and continued.

Not quite a mile later, Renly's outriders came swooping down on them, twenty men mailed and mounted, led by a grizzled greybeard of a knight with bluejays on his surcoat. They held back far enough that they wouldn't be easily overwhelmed if they were foes, but Tristan suspected there were more held further back, just in case this was a hostile force. He held up his hand to halt the column. The leading knight, having seen the banner flying above their heads, approached alone, and he trotted his horse out a few more steps to meet him.

"My lord," he called, "I am Ser Colen of Greenpools, as it please you. These are dangerous lands you cross."

"Our business is urgent enough to warrant the danger," _little as it is_ , he thought. "I am Tristan, of the House Stark. I come as an envoy from my brother, Robb of the House Stark, the First of his Name, King in the North and King of the Trident. He has sent me to treat with Renly Baratheon, the King in the South."

"By the grace of gods and men, King Renly has been anointed ruler of all the Seven Kingdoms," Ser Colen replied, courteously enough. "His Grace is encamped with his host at Bitterbridge, not far from here. It shall be my honour to guide you to him." He raised a mailed fist and his men turned around, forming a guide for them to follow.

They saw the smoke of the camp's fires when they were still an hour from the river. Then the sound came drifting across the rolling planes, indistinct as the murmur of some distant sea, but swelling as they rode closer. By the time they caught sight of the Mander's muddy waters glinting in the sun, they could make out the voices of men, the clatter of steel and the whinny of horses. But none of this prepared Tristan for the sheer size of the host they came across.

Thousands of cook fires filled the air with the smell of smoke and the accompanying smoky haze; horse lines stretched for miles as far as the eye could see, and Tristan wondered where all the wood had come from to make the thousands of pavilion and flag poles, let alone the thousands of spears and pikes, who's tips glinted red in the morning sun, as though they had already shed the blood of their enemies. Then there were the siege engines, lined up on the side of the road, mangonels, trebuchets, covered rams with wheels taller than men and four large siege towers. Then there were the men. Tristan saw men with spears and axes and swords, men in steel caps and mail shirts and hauberks, he saw camp followers flaunting their bodies, looking for a bit of coin, archers were fletching arrows, teamsters with wagons, pages running errands and messages between one lord and another knights on their pleasant palfreys and squires and grooms handling the destriers the knights would mount before battle.

"That is a large army," Tristan muttered. Robb could count upon the support of the Trident and his own northmen, but together they couldn't match this host for numbers.

On this side of the river, the golden rose of House Tyrell was everywhere, on the arms and breasts of armsmen, fluttering from a thousand poles for the brothers, cousins and uncles of Renly Baratheon's queen. He recognised other sigils as well, from the tourney at Highgarden, sigils who's houses he had forgotten, but there were hunters, foxes and flowers, birds, apples and butterflies. On the other side were other sigils, but only one he could confirm he knew, the crowned stag of House Baratheon, but there were some that looked familiar, nightingales and buckles and quills, he had seen them at Highgarden as well, but there was also turtles and crows. All the might of the south seemed to have come with Renly Baratheon, and he hoped to see them all, knights, lords and freeriders who had come to make Renly Baratheon the king he claimed to be.

"It is large," Domeric muttered. "But do you hear that?" He listened.

"Cheers?"

Domeric nodded. "It would seem there is a tourney of some sort going on."

They passed over a grassy hill and saw that, in the shadow of a small castle, there was indeed a melee proceeding, with barriers erected to keep the hundreds if not thousands of watchers from pouring in to get involved. They dismounted and passed their horses off to their squires to look after. Tristan looked over, but all he saw not were heads of the crowd, and the occasional glance at a mounted knight. Why Renly thought it was a good idea to waste strength on a melee with foes on either side, Tristan didn't quite know.

"Lord Tristan," Ser Colen said, coming to join them. "If your men and... pets... would be so kind as to wait here, I shall present you to King Renly." He looked at the wolves with some concern.

"The sworn swords can wait," Tristan replied. "But my lords are as much part of this delegation as I. And as to these two," he stroked their heads as they came either side of him. "No." If this southron thought to separate him from his protection, he was a fool.

Ser Colen didn't look happy, but didn't look like he wanted to argue either. "We may have to wait for the melee to finish," he said.

Tristan shook his head. "I would, Ser Colen," he said. "But I am a prince now. I don't feel like waiting. Besides, I want to watch this." He looked at the stiff crowd, he could try and push his way through, but there were other ways. He tapped Nymeria and shield on the heads and they looked up at him. "Nymeria, Shield, if you would please," he gestured to the crowd. The wolves approached the armsmen in the back and nuzzled them. Shield's muzzle rapped on thighs while Nymeria's threatened knees to get people to move. When they looked around and saw what was nuzzling them, men jumped away in fright, grabbing their friends and pulling them away from the beasts from hell that they likely saw. Ser Colen fell in line beside him as they approached the barrier, more and more men moving aside to make way for the men from the North and Trident.

When Colen, Tristan and his lords arrived at the barrier, there were only a dozen men left in the fight, including one he recognised as Lord Tyrell's youngest son and a tall, strong knight in cobalt blue armour, who seemed to be leading the fight.

Tristan scouted the who had been fortunate to earn themselves a seat in the stands set up to one side, the lords and ladies of the south who were not fighting in the melee. The King had to be the one in the middle. He was dressed in vibrant green with a stag sewn on the front of his doublet in thick golden threat, the sigil of House Baratheon in the colours of Tyrell. The king hadn't thought to do the same on his sigil, however, for Renly Baratheon's banner was made from a piece of cloth a hundred times larger than the one Robb had provided him, and it was the burnished gold field with the prancing black stag, the same sigil that dead King Robert had used. Still, he wondered whether this new king would be the warrior that his brother was, he hadn't heard such. He nudged Domeric and Daryn, who had come to his side, and several others leaned in when he beckoned. He pointed to Renly's banner. "I can't help but wonder if there is a special reason why he has a banner that's so excessively big." His lords got a good chuckle at that. But then, Tristan would hardly blame Renly for trying to show off some level of manliness, what with the girl who was sat next to him. Margaery Tyrell was dressed in the same colours as her husband, green and gold, her dress flowing around her feminine form, her curls falling about her shoulder, and her smile shy and sweet. She clapped her hands in excitement. He turned to see that there were only two knights left in the tourney, the Knight of the Flowers and the knight in cobalt blue.

Ser Loras rained down blows on his head and shoulders, to shouts of "Highgarden!" from the throng. The other gave answer with his morningstar, but whenever the ball came crashing in, Ser Loras interposed his battered green shield, emblazoned with three golden roses. When the longaxe caught the blue knight's hand on the backswing and sent the morningstar flying from his grasp, the crowd screamed like a rutting beast. The Knight of Flowers raised his axe for the final blow.

But the Cobalt knight wasn't done, he met the charge head on and Tristan saw them wrestling for the axe. _Impressive,_ he thought as the Cobalt knight's strength proved superior, wrenching the axe free and smashing it on Loras" head. Loras fell to the ground and the Blue knight slid off his own horse, slamming his boot into the Loras' breastplate before crouching low and, with his dirk, opening the visor of the Knight of the Flowers.

He didn't need to see the typical vacillating that came with southron victories, he had seen them enough, so he crouched down beside Shield and Nymeria. "Do you sense anything wrong?" He asked them. Ever since they had discovered the Lannister outriders, he had come to trust their instincts. They had been given to the Starks by the Old Gods, and the Old Gods watched their own. Here in the south, the weirwoods were largely cut down, but now the gods had new eyes, and those eyes watched over him.

"Tristan," Daryn pulled him to his feet and pointed. Renly had come down and was fastening a new cloak to the victor's shoulders. The victor was ugly, covered in a thousand freckles, with a nose that had suffered one break or more on a flat and broad face with jutting teeth. But there wassomething about them...

He squinted at the knight. "Is _that_ a woman!" He hissed to Daryn.

"It would seem so," Daryn nodded.

"So when they called her beauty, that was mocking," Domeric said, he had clearly been listening better than Tristan had.

"Calling... whatever that is a beauty is like calling your father warm and loving," he muttered to Domeric. "No offence meant of course."

Domeric chuckled, but Ser Colen vaulted the barrier. "Your Grace," he called, dropping to one knee before Lord Renly. "I have the honour of presenting Lord Tristan Stark, an envoy from his brother, Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell."

" _Prince_ Tristan Stark," he corrected the knight, vaulting over the barrier as well. "And my brother is Lord of Winterfell and King in the North." Shield and Nymeria drew gasps from the surrounding men as they slunk under the barrier and his fellow lordlings came over it as well.

"Quite the delegation your brother has sent, and two of the famed Direwolves as well, last I saw them, they were much smaller than that," Renly commented, seemingly unfazed by the sudden appearance of these men, though when you were surrounded day in and day out by such a host, another hundred must seem entirely insignificant. He ascended his steps back to his seat and Tristan used the time to look around. Margaery Tyrell looked alarmed by his appearance, and more than one man with a rose on his breast was muttering to the one beside him. He saw other men, probably veterans of the Highgarden tourney, muttering to their fellows as well. "Allow me to extend my sorrow for the loss of your father, he was a good man. I know his death was unjust"

"I'm glad someone recognises it, my lord," he said, bowing his head in thanks. Renly knew something of justice, it seemed. "But I mean to have exacted my price from the Lannisters by the war's end."

"As I mean to see Cersei Lannister die," he said. "I will send her head to your family when King's Landing is ours."

"I would much rather remove it myself, my lord," he replied.

"Your Grace," the girl-playing-knight presumed to correct him. "And you should kneel before your king."

It irked him that this _woman_ was taller than he was, he didn't like looking up into her fiercely burning eyes. "What's your name?" He asked her.

"Brienne the Blue of the-" she began.

"Well, Brienne the Blue," he interrupted her. "He's not my grace, and he's not my king, those titles can be claimed only by my brother, the man who sent me here."

Some of Renly's lords seemed to bristle at that, but the King in the South only laughed. "There will be time enough for arguments of graces when this war is done," he called out to ease the tension. "Tell me, Prince Tristan, when does your brother plan to march against Harrenhal?"

"When do you mean to fight a battle instead of playing at war in the safety of your own lands?" He asked in return, remembering Robb's request that he not divulge any war plans with Renly. "My lord, I think we can both agree that neither of us mean to tell the other our plans of war."

"Fair enough," Renly replied. "But what of the Kingslayer?"

"Locked in a dungeon at Riverrun," he replied, that wasn't giving too much away, he hoped.

Renly looked ambivalent about it, like he didn't need the Kingslayer, and with an army this size, who could blame him for thinking so. "The Direwolf is gentler than the lion, it would seem, a lord with a golden tree on his tunic said.

"Careful," Tristan warned with a smile, covering an ear of Shield and Nymeria. "You don't want them to hear that, they can be very prickly beasts." His northmen and riverlords laughed and even a few men around the field chuckled.

"Well, Lord Tristan," Renly said, getting to his feet. "Perhaps a little rest, allow your wolves to let their tensions rest. Lord Caswell has been so kind as to grant me his castle, so I leave my tent for you."

He bowed his head in thanks, though he rather wished he could have this meeting done with here and now, so he could return to Robb, the Riverlands, and war.

He was escorted to Renly's tent by armsmen who seemed more than a little wary of Shield and Nymeria, keeping their distance. "If you have need of anything, only ask, my lord," they said before beating a hasty retreat.

He would not need anything if the tent were half as furnished as it was, but none of it interested Tristan, so he flopped on the heavy sleeping mattress as Daryn and Domeric sat about him with some of the other Lordlings, like Lucas Blackwood and Wendel Manderly. "My room in Riverrun wasn't as comfortable as this," he muttered as he lay his head back.

"Maybe you should ask for one for the wolves," Lucas suggested, making the others laugh. "They have killed more Lannisters than any man in this host after all.

Tristan chuckled and closed his eyes as his lordlings began to talk amongst themselves. He saw the rest of his men, lordling and escorts, settling themselves down around it, juggling daggers, sharing jokes or eyeing the nearby southrons warily. Looking the other way, he saw a force of Tyrell men in steel plate and with a large banner approaching. They were escorting the young queen to his tent, it seemed.

He opened his eyes to stare up at the canopy of the large silk pavilion. "My lord," a voice came from outside. "The lady Margaery Tyrell wishes to speak to you."

"Send her in," he called, unsurprised at her arrival. "Leave us, please," he said, and his lordling nodded, bowing to him and filing out of the tent. He whistled and Margaery was preceded by Shield and Nymeria, who padded their way in.

Margaery followed, surprisingly alone not one escort at her back, and fixed him with a slight smile. "Prince Tristan," she greeted, curtsying.

He got to his feet and bowed his head, "Lady Margaery," he replied.

"I must say I never expected you to come here," she said. "Of all the emissaries your brother could have sent, I am surprised it would be you."

"And of all those who would come to talk to me, I'm surprised it would be a Tyrell. You all made your feelings towards me quite plain the last time we met."

Margaery glanced around at his friends who were looking at the two of them curiously. "Perhaps we could talk in private."

He looked into her soft brown eyes. They seemed truthful enough, but he couldn't be sure. "The wolves come," he said. There was a brief pause but Margaery nodded. "Wait here," he said to his friends before following her out of the tent.

She led him along the tent line, her guards keeping a safe distance behind. "The army my husband has assembled is impressive, is it not?" She commented as they passed a weapons rack lined with war axes.

"It's big," Tristan conceded, though huge would be a more appropriate term. "But it can't be called impressive until tested in battle as my brother's has been."

"We've heard of his victories," Margaery replied. "We are all impressed, but he hasn't faced an army this big before."

"And Renly hasn't faced an army before," Tristan pointed out. "He's faced opponents who happily sit on their horses directly opposite, knock him off and then praise his skills. My brother will be fine."

They slipped down to the river. Opposite were the Stormlords, Renly's own men. "But why did he send you here then?" Margaery asked.

"To negotiate. We both have a foe that stands against our desires. Renly wants to be king in the south, and we want freedom from the Iron Throne. The Lannisters stand against both of us in this regard."

"Given that he sent you, I assume he doesn't know what happened."

Tristan nodded. "He does, yet he sent me anyway, that is how much he trusts me. But even if he did, he sent me to negotiate with Renly, not you."

"I hold more than a little sway over Renly," Margaery replied, self assured.

"Perhaps," he said. "But is he advised by his wife, or ruled by her? And what would he say?" If he knew these southerners, Renly Baratheon would never admit to being ruled by his wife, perhaps simply implying such would be enough to get him to go along with what he wanted. No northman would ever be ruled by his wife, but he had to accept lower standards from the southerners.

"I have no idea," Margaery replied coolly. "But they will sing of his victory in the days to come, songs that will last generations. Will they sing of him fighting alongside the Young Wolf?"

"My brother will have his own songs," Tristan said.

They fell back into silence along the river, with the gently flowing water before them and the chaos of the war camp behind. "Was there another reason you wished to speak, or did you just wish to show me your knights of summer?"

"There is," Margaery said, turning to him. "My husband would speak with you now."

"Now?"

She nodded. "He would begin discussions as soon as possible. If you are willing of course."

"Why not," he replied. The sooner these discussions happened, the sooner he could return to the war. "Lead the way."

Margaery led him through the camp towards the castle, past squires and knights who recoiled at the sight of two great wolves padding past them. Once inside she led him up to a grand bedchamber guarded by her brother. At a nod from her, Loras opened the door and Margaery led them in. "Prince Tristan, my king."

Renly was out on the balcony judging by the direction of his reply. "I'll leave you two to speak of matters of state," Margaery replied. "His Grace has no need of me."

She shut the door with a soft click and Tristan headed onto the balcony overlooking the nearby stretch of river and the army camped either side of it. He waited awkwardly for Renly to start speaking. "It's a magnificent sight, isn't it? So many tents. If you were to start counting even now you would not be done by the time we supped tonight. How many tents are around Riverrun I wonder."

 _None_ , Tristan thought. Robb was at war, where he should be, but instead he was here.

"I am told that the Young Wolf crossed the Neck with twenty thousand swords at his back, now that the lords of the Trident have joined him has that number reached forty thousand." _I couldn't tell you even if I knew. Robb has enough to win, that's all that matters._ "I have twice that number here," Renly said, gesturing proudly with his arm like he had just perfectly lined up an army of toy soldiers and was seeking to impress, "and this is only half of my strength, Lord Tyrell is gathering a reserve host at Highgarden and I have a strong garrison at Storm's End. The Dornish will join me soon enough and even those around King's Landing will join me when my host is bearing down on them with the setting sun. My brother has his own claim, but he will join me in the end. So must your brother. I will not be the King of a broken realm. Three hundred years ago a Stark knelt to a Targaryen for he was wise enough to see that he could not ride against the Dragon. Your brother must be wise as well as brave and skilled to be a king. Yes. I dare say I'll even let him keep the title of king, as well as all the rights, titles and privileges of your father, but fealty, loyalty and service... these I must have."

"And if he won't give them to you?" Tristan asked.

"As I said, I won't be the king of a broken realm. I cannot say it plainer."

A sudden hammering on the door startled them both. "Who is it?" Renly called.

"A messenger, my king, with urgent news," came the voice of Margaery's brother.

"Send him in."

The messenger entered, winged helm under his arm and surcoat stained with the mud and dust that was kicked up by a galloping horse. "Your Grace," he said, dropping to one knee. "I came as swift as my horse would carry me. From Storm's End. We are besieged, Your Grace, Ser Cortnay defies the enemy but-"

"But... besieged by whom?" Renly asked, shocked for the first time since Tristan had arrived. "I would have heard if Lord Tywin had come south."

"These are no Lannisters, my king. It is Lord Stannis at the gates. King Stannis he now calls himself."

 _This would be the brother who would join you soon enough then, Renly,_ Tristan thought, but he was here to negotiate, not to goad. How would Renly react?

It took a minute or two, but soon Renly turned to Loras, who had entered with the messenger. "Ser Loras, order the horse to make ready, tomorrow morning we ride east."

"As you command my king," Loras said, bowing and making his exit.

"You ride to battle your brother then?" Tristan asked. How could southerners battle brother against brother so openly?

"I do," Renly said, a hardened steel in his voice, a steel that told Tristan this was not a man who liked it when things didn't go his way. "And you will accompany me."

Tristan thought it over. "No. I won't," he said simply.

"You won"t?" Renly demanded.

He shook his head. "No. My brother sent me to negotiate with you and to help formulate a battle plan against the Lannisters. He did not send me to help or observe you make war against your brother. I will return to my brother."

"I would have you bring word of my victory to the Young Wolf."

Tristan made his way to the door. "I have no doubt, Lord Renly that we will hear of your victory. When you have it, then send word to my brother and these talks can proceed. Until then I wish you speed and fortune." _If half of what my father has said about Stannis is true, you'll need it._

As he marched back towards the entrance of the castle he thought back to Winterfell and couldn't help but wonder how Stannis' daughter was faring in this war, or how his sisters were, trapped in King's Landing with the Lannisters. _We'll have them back soon enough. Sansa in her gowns and Arya no doubt coated in much and blood. We'll have them back and we'll have the Lannisters bleed for any harm that has come to them._


	39. Book 2 Loren III

_Robynhood13 - Well I can't write everyone to be awesome and appealing, where's the fun in that. But the worst ever, really? Worse than Ramsay and Joffrey? Didn't think I'd gone that far._

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"...lastly, King Joffrey and the Queen regent must renounce all claims to dominion over the north. Henceforth we are no part of their realm, but a free and independent kingdom, as of old. Our domain shall include all the Stark lands north of the Neck, and in addition the lands watered by the River Trident and its vassal streams, bounded by the Golden Tooth to the west and the mountains of the Moons…Lord Tywin must withdraw beyond these boards and cease his raiding, burning, and pillage. The Queen Regent and her son shall make no claims to taxes, incomes, nor service from my people, and shall free my lords and knights from all oaths of fealty, vows, pledges, debts, and obligations owned to the Iron Throne and the Houses Baratheon and Lannister."

Loren didn't even bother reading about the hostages that Robb Stark demanded from his family as signs of good behaviour, and simply put the scroll down.

"Of course, Cersei will never accept these," he muttered. "I shall draw up a list of demands that will make Robb Stark want to drag out these talks long enough, that will give our uncle Stafford time to train up his fresh host at Casterly Rock." He turned back to his weasely cousin Cleos Frey. "What can you tell me of Robb Stark, cousin," any information he could glean might be useful.

"The boy sits idle at Riverrun…I think he fears to face your father in the field. His strength grows less each day. The river lords have departed, each to defend his own lands," Cleos told them.

Loren nodded. "Good," he said. The longer the boy waited, the more the odds shifted in the favour of the Lannisters. "If he is sending peace terms, perhaps it is peace he desires, that is time for us." He sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Go now and rest, Ser Cleos," he said. "I will send for you when I have drawn up our response to the Starks."

When he was alone again, he leant back in his chair. He couldn't be dealing with a council meeting for every issue that came to them. What did Varys, Littlefinger, Pycelle, Cersei or Tyrion know of war, anyhow? This was a matter he could handle alone. Cersei would likely voice her anger at not being included in the decisions, but he could bare that, and she wouldn't complain about his response.

Then a knock at the door made him look up. "Enter."

It was Ser Gerold who entered. "My Lord," he said, bowing. "Your sister commands that you come to her solar immediately."

He sighed. "Very well," he said. "Send in Vylarr." The Lannister Captain knew whom he served, Loren was before Cersei and Tyrion in line to Casterly Rock.

"Are you sure you don't wish to go now, my lord," he asked. "Your sister was most insistent that you come immediately."

"If she was so desperate to see me she should have come herself," he replied. "Send in Vylarr."

If his sister was calling on him, it was likely to complain, one way or another. He would have something to counter with.

Vylarr entered and bowed, his helmet under his arm. "My lord," he said. "How can I serve you?"

"My sister," he said, lacing his fingers together before his face. "Your men are reporting to you, are they not?"

Vylarr nodded. "They are," he said.

"Then tell me, where has she been going and what has she been doing recently?" He made a point to check in with Vylarr regularly, but he needed the information now.

"My Lord, she has been meeting with members of the Alchemist's guild these last few days."

"Alchemists?" Loren asked. "For what purpose?"

"She has been discussing the production of Wildfire, my lord," he said, and Loren cursed. How did Cersei expect him to defend this city if she didn't give him all the tools? Unless she was calling this meeting to tell him about it, he would have words with her.

"Shit Cersei, your megalomania will be the death of us all," he muttered. "Is there anything else?"

"I have just come from the Throne Room," Vylarr said. "Her Grace... the Queen Regent... she has announced that the Lannisters will trade the Stark daughters, both of them, for Ser Jaime."

"Cersei!" He yelled, getting up so fast his chair toppled over backwards. "Take me to her, now!" He said.

Six men fell in as an escort beside him as he marched through the keep towards Cersei's solar. When there he waved aside the Lannister men and slammed the door open. Cersei was sitting at her table, a cup of wine in her hand, drinking deeply. She looked at him slowly. "Brother," she said, clearly angry at having to wait even a little while. "You've come."

She didn't have time to wait react as he smashed the cup from her hand, the red liquid splashing along the floor like blood from a freshly slit throat. "Why?" He demanded, clenching his fist. How he wanted to sink it into her face, breaking that pretty nose of hers would be glorious.

"We need Jaime," she said simply, licking the wine from the back of her hand like a kitten. "And unlike you, I am willing to do whatever it takes, even if that means lie and cheat, to get him back."

"Jaime lost," he hissed. "Be thankful that Stark doesn't seem to be willing to give him up. Or you could have damaged this court for all to see."

"I am the Queen Regent," she said, slamming her cup down on the table. "You are the Hand of the King, you do not command me. I made the pronouncement in the throne room that you were unwilling to."

He shook his head at her. "Perhaps. Tell me, was your exotic, carved wooden chair comfortable?" He asked and saw her bristle. "You are the Regent, Cersei, but I am the Hand and your son is King. Only the Hand of the King and the King himself may sit the Iron Throne. Tell me, did you like the way the Iron Throne stared at the back of your neck? Did you like the way the whole court was looking to see who sat there, rather than seeing you as the Queen Regent. I know that's what you _really_ want. But you can't have it, and you never will."

"Silence!" She shrieked, anger in every inch of her face. "I will not be spoken to like that."

"And then you seek to undermine my strategy," he said. "When did you plan to tell me about the Wildfire?"

Her eyes momentarily widened. Someone else might have missed it, but she was his sister and he could read that face of hers with some ease. "How did you-?"

"You think I have been idle, Cersei?" He asked her. "By not telling me of key pieces of information, you are a threat, and while threats walk this city, _my_ eyes shall watch them." Or at least they would, when he could find a way of getting men closer to Littlefinger and Varys.

"What about you?" Cersei demanded of him. "When were you planning on telling me of your planned negotiations with the Dornish and Arryns, or the Tyroshi?"

That momentarily took him aback. Those negotiations had borne no fruit of yet, he had not expected her to think so much of them. "When they came to anything," he said. He would make sure to give the Grand Maester guards from now on. He was the only one to whom he had given those sealed letters. His men would ensure no harm came to Pycelle, unless he snuck any more messages to his sister. "We cannot win the war alone Cersei," he said. "The Starks, Tullys, Baratheons and Tyrells all march against us, and we have lost one host to this war already. We must have allies, and we have some chips to offer them." The Arryns and Martells could offer them soldiers to bolster their ranks, which they currently needed. However the Tyroshi could provide them a fleet with which to battle Stannis Baratheon. In truth he hoped such an alliance wouldn't come at the cost of Myrcella, allowing them to sack the Islands of the Narrow Sea for their wealth and depart should be sufficient, but the option remained available.

"Chips," she said, suddenly alarmed. "You don"t mean... not Myrcella, no!"

"She is a Princess, Cersei," he reminded her. "It is her duty, she was born to be married off."

"No," Cersei declared. "You will not sell her off, not to the Martells, or the Arryns, and certainly not the Tyroshi." She looked him up and down. "You have daughters," she snarled. "Three of them, why not offer them."

"Because offering a man silver when he knows you have gold is not the best way to an alliance," Loren explained. Martell, Arryn, they wanted a princess, not a noble lady. Cersei always wanted to be the Queen but she was never ready to accept the price. He would make her.

"Then you had best hope my negotiations with the Martells come to fruition," he said to her.

"The Martells loathe us, they will kill her the minute she sets foot in Dorne. Not that she ever will."

Loren shook his head. Once more his sister was acting on her own assumptions instead of securing all the facts first. "The Dornish want a princess, this is true, but not ours. They want custody of Daenerys Targaryen."

"They-" She said, surprised. Then a smile spread across her face. "Yes," she said. "Yes, get that girl out of my city."

"No," he said. "It is the King's City, and the minute she arrives in Dorne, the Dornish will raise their banners for her as the last Targaryen. We must keep her close." Of course, he may have to offer Myrcella if they wouldn't accept other offers. But Cersei didn't need to know that for now. "Besides, Stannis Baratheon's fleet has the gullet closed," he said. "We have no way of delivering her to Dorne right now, as I have said to Prince Doran." Still, at least he might be able to keep the Dornish from joining Renly, not that it was likely. Emnity between Sunspear and Highgarden and Storm's End predated the Iron Throne itself.

There was a knocking at the door. "My lord, Your Grace," he recognised the voice of Ser Gerold. "Forgive me for interrupting, but there is something for you to see."

"Come in," he said and the knight entered with what looked to be a raven's missive. He held out his hand and Gerold passed him the letter before bowing and leaving the siblings to their discussion.

He read the message. Then he read it again. He read it a third time just to be sure. Then he laughed. He laughed so hard he felt his sides begin to split. Despite everything, despite two great defeats, despite Jaime being captured and despite being surrounded by foes on all sides, fate, it seemed, held a little sympathy for them. "What is it?" Cersei demanded.

"Pour me some of that wine," he said, looking up at her with a large smile on his face.

"Why?" She asked, less demanding this time. "What has happened?"

He flashed the letter to her. He could afford to tease her a little. "Stannis Baratheon's host has sailed from Dragonstone."

"What!" She cried. "You shouldn't be laughing, you should be calling the men to their stations, you should-"

"Sh sh sh," he said, taking her wrists gently to calm her down. "Stannis Baratheon has sailed," he repeated, holding up the letter for her to read. "And his host is now encamped beneath the walls of Storm's End."

Cersei blinked, then laughed herself. It was not a high, hysterical laugh, but a laugh of pure joy. "Guards!" He called, and two of them entered the room, confused at what was happening. "Bring Tyrion here, he needs to hear this."

"Yes," Cersei said, alarming him, he thought she might object. "Go and fetch our brother, bring him here to us at once!" Then, surprising probably everyone, she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him tightly. He hugged her back in thanks. She brought him a cup of wine.

"Renly cannot let this go unchallenged," Loren said. "He will forsake his march to battle his brother!"

"To Renly Baratheon!" Cersei toasted, raising her cup.

He tapped it with his own, making the deep red liquid slosh joyously in its cup. "To Stannis Baratheon as well, let us give both brothers their due."

Tyrion found them together and looked bewildered. "What is happening, dear siblings?" He asked.

"We are toasting Stannis and Renly," Cersei explained through fits of laughter. Loren just indicated the missive on the table. By the time Tyrion had read it, his ugly face slipping into an image of mirth, Loren had already poured him a cup of his own and was holding it out to him.

Tyrion joined them and, for a while, the war was forgotten, old grudges buried as three children of Tywin Lannister celebrated their good fortune. "Still," he said as their celebrations died down. "We must move to take advantage of this. Gerold!" He called. His knight entered the room.

"My Lord," he bowed. "Remind me, did you ever recruit any archers to join my guard?"

"I did, My Lord," he replied.

Loren nodded. "Bring me the very best of them, if they can't hit five with five arrows, I'm not interested. Those who can, tell them I have a task that could net them a King's ransom."

Gerold nodded and left to find his archers.

"What are you planning?" Tyrion asked. "Should we not simply let this conflict burn between the brothers?"

"We could," Loren admitted. "But I see this as a chance. Since sending out his claim, Stannis Baratheon has been ringed by sea and steel. Renly has marched with a hundred thousand shields between him and a foe. He is likely to move quickly, which means a smaller host, so as to catch his brother as soon as possible. Renly and Stannis may be as alike as you and Jaime, Tyrion, but they are still brothers. They will parley. Both Baratheon brothers will be together. We can have them both killed."

"That could be dangerous," Tyrion said. "If they know it was us, they could unite. Stannis Baratheon has a son, and Renly Baratheon would have a widow."

"Lyonel Baratheon would never marry Margaery Tyrell," Cersei dismissed. "Stannis likely regards Renly as the greatest traitor of all."

"And all those who follow him in the same light," Loren finished, earning a rare smile from Cersei. "The Tyrells know this as well. An offer of pardons, and they will likely return to the fold, go home and harvest their food. That will leave a Baratheon boy with no army and Robb Stark alone to face us."

"Do it," Cersei lightly commanded him. "kill them both."

"Gladly."


	40. Book 2 Robb I

_Daemon Blackwater: Thanks for the praise, it really means a lot! Lyonel isn't all that charismatic though, and there are a lot of ifs in there._

 _JaceMaddox: Well Stannis wasn't directly implicated in the books. Loras himself blames Brienne until way later. All the evidence they have is that Renly was in a tent with Brienne and then he died and she was gone, so I'm not sure the Tyrells would go grovelling in that situation. But you're right that Lyonel isn't wholly adverse to the idea, Loren may well have misjudged badly._

 _Faenor-dutch: No Tyrion POVs for at least the foreseeable future, sorry._

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The Young Wolf had planned a campaign that required navigating an impossible barrier. The mountains of the Golden Tooth rose high and imposing on to the west. On this side of them the foothills were slight and small, with the Mountains coming as though some great giant had slammed a shield of rock into the earth and left it there as a barrier between the river Trident and his hoards of gold sheltered behind. Robb knew that it was not the same on the other side, the foothills there were far more numerous and large, so that the slope of the mountains seemed less severe. He had to find a way across this barrier, he couldn't wait for the Lannister host to be formed and come to him, every day he waited his men grew tired. Crossing the main pass at the Golden Tooth may have been possible, but the garrison, reinforced by the survivors of the Battle of the Camps, would be strong, they may resist, and the castle would report his crossing to both Lord Tywin and the new host forming near Casterly Rock. The long term option would be to ride hard to the south and circle underneath the mountains, rising from the south. But that could take too long, Stafford Lannister's host could be prepared and march on Riverrun from the west, and he wouldn't be there to stop it. However, it was the option he would take, unless he could find a way through the mountains here.

His scouts had found nothing, no traversable routs, no small passes, nothing. "Perhaps we should strike for the south, Your Grace," the Greatjon suggested. "The men grow restless, and wish to battle."

Robb nodded. "We set up camp, and search up here for one more day," he said. "Then we ride south," he couldn't delay longer. Stafford Lannister's host would not be strong, not now. It would be made up of sellswords scrounged from across the west, lured by Lannister gold and un-concerned by the Stark victories; it would be the stews of Lannisport, green men and boys given their first spears. They would have to be drilled, he knew that much. This host would be drilled, then it would march to the Golden Tooth, join arms with the veterans who had retreated there and another host, the size of Jaime Lannister's would be descending on his rear, but he would stop them before that happened. Lord Tywin wanted him to either march on Harrenhal to face him, or wait. The terms he had sent to the Lannisters should mask his movements, they would think him cowardly and timid, hiding behind walls. They would be proven wrong, he swore. Perhaps, when his northmen were tearing across the west, the Lannisters may suddenly find proposals of peace more to their liking.

As he rested that night, he thought of Tristan. His mother had advised him that sending Tristan was not the wisest choice. In truth, he knew it. But Renly was calling himself King now, and he had to send one of two people, his mother, or his brother. They would look upon his mother and see a woman, widowed and weak in an army of men. They would look upon his brother and see a warrior, and his twin, a delegation worthy of respect. He hopes Tristan would be able to put aside his disdain and find a glibber tongue than usual, and that any previous relationship between him and House Tyrell might help his cause. He knew there was something that Tristan was not telling him, he could feel it when he brought up House Tyrell, but Tristan had denied any problem. Robb would not insult his brother by coddling him, Tristan would face his demons, and cut them down. He closed his eyes thinking of Tristan, his blade, his wolf, and his trust.

He dreamt of running over hills and through valleys, and of small paths flanked by stone and victory.

The next morning he woke quickly. At Riverrun he had the luxury of sleeping in. Not in a war camp, he had taught the Lannisters that they must have secure camps outside Riverrun, and he would not forget his own lesson now.

As Olyvar helped him mount his horse and pack away his equipment and tent, Robb found Grey Wind acting strangely on the edge of the camp, bounding around with the insistence of a hound. "What is it?" He asked the wolf, who fixed him with a glare then looked towards the mountains.

"What"s the wolf saying now?" The Greatjon asked.

Robb looked his wolf in the eye, and saw... something... there. He knew the wolf had seen something, something useful, he felt it. "Let's follow him," Robb said. He put his spurs to his horse and followed Grey Wind, his outriders and scouts riding far ahead to make sure they were not spotted. Before the battles of the Whispering Wood and the camps, his soldiers would have been likely to have concern with him suggesting they follow a wolf. But no longer, and they followed Grey Wind towards the mountains.

When they arrived at the stone face of the rock, Robb looked around. There was much shrubbery around the area, but besides that, nothing. Had Grey Wind led them here for nothing? But he seemed intently focussed on a particular patch of trees and shrubbery growing against the side of the mountains, no more than two meters wide. "Greatjon," Robb said, feeling... something. "Have some men clear that shrubbery. Men in Umber surcoats approached with heavy axes and began hacking. "The rest of you get ready and keep watch."

When they were done, and had cleared a path through the shrubbery and trees, they called him over. "Your Grace it's... it's..."

Robb dismounted and hurried over and his jaw opened slightly. It was a pass. It couldn't fit more than one mounted man widthways, but it was a path. Looking up he saw that the reason they couldn't see the pass was that it folded over, winding into the mountains so the folds of rock disguised the others and the passage. How had Grey Wind found that?

"Ser Brynden!" He called. "Send some men into this pass, see where it leads and that it isn't a trap.

The scouts entered and the hours ticked by, but eventually they returned, riding as hard as they could through the narrow pass. "Your Grace," they reported. "It's a miracle, truly the gods are with us this day. This pass is narrow, it never widens enough for more than one horse and enough room to turn around, but it leads all the way through the mountains.

Robb felt his face break into a small smile. "The gods have shown their favour. Let us take the pass into the West, the Lannisters may never know we're coming."

The pass was imposing. Robb's guards had refused to let him ride at the front, and he was staring intently at the back of Smalljon's armour. Looking up was dizzying, he kept suspecting that some rock would fall and crush his head. But it didn't. Occasionally the path rose into the mountains, sometimes he had to duck in order to avoid hitting his head, other times he had to dismount and lead his horse through afoot. But eventually, they made it, and the Northern host emerged into the Western evening. It was some fortune that they were warring in the summer, if this had been winter, the day would have darkened before they were half way through.

"Ser Brynden," he called as his host was still emerging. The scouts and his Grand Uncle had been the first through the pass. "Set up scouting lines, and ensure we aren't being watched. But alert no one to our arrival, we must take full advantage of this. Tomorrow, we begin searching for the new Lannister host."

They rested for the first time on Lannister land, men brought back carcasses of dead beasts of the forest and they feasted on them. Eating food taken from Tywin Lannister's land tasted a hundred times sweeter, Robb thought, and with the way Grey Wind was tearing into the flesh of a boar, he quite agreed. He looked out over the Westerlands, from here, in the evening light, he could just about make our small villages and towers. Brynden assured him that the towers were either empty or had been cleared. So here he was basking in Lannister land, waiting to unleash sweet vengeance on them for all the harm they had inflicted on his people.

But first, they had to rob the Westerlands of their defenders. Stafford Lannister was not a skilled soldier, apparently his son Daven was far more skilled in the art of war. But even if the father had delegated command to his more capable son, in all likelihood, the Lannister host would be gathering near Casterly Rock and Lannisport, where they would have access to gold, resources and the mass of a city for recruits.

They set off south at a brisk pace when dawn broke the next day, they needed to cross as much distance as possible without being seen. Having crossed the mountains south of the Golden Tooth, Robb expected to be riding west. However, it seemed Stafford had taken up a more central position, near a village called Oxcross, not far from here, but only three day's ride from the Rock and Lannisport, and still easily within sight of the Golden Tooth.

"Ser Stafford seems to believe that he is safe," Brynden informed Robb and his lords when his scouts had reported back. "He has decided that it would be impossible for us to come upon him, and has posted no sentries near his camp."

"And we will make him pay for that failure," Robb declared, and his lords nodded their ascent. The Greatjon looked as eager for battle as ever, and Lord Karstark's eyes sought vengeance for the death of his son. He thought. If the Lannisters had no sentries, then he could win this before it ever became a battle. "We wait for the cover of darkness," Robb said. "Then, Brynden, pick some of your best men to sneak into the Lannister camp. Once inside, they will cut the horse lines. Grey Wind will scatter their horses then, in the chaos, we will descend on them from all sides, destroy this host and send it scattering to the winds. Then the Westerlands will be ours for the taking." His lords gave their approval to the plan.

He split his command. He would take three thousand of the horse, and descend from the east. The Greatjon's force of two thousand would attack from the north and Stevron Frey's rivermen would ride from the south.

He waited patiently, this was not a battle that would be won by speed. When Brynden's scouts returned, he gave Grey Wind the signal and the wolf prowled off in the darkness. He wasn't worried for the beast, not as he would have been had this been his first battle. Grey Wind was his loyal companion, his fearsome bodyguard and stalwart friend. He would be fine, and he would give the signal to charge.

They heard cries utter from the camp and the sounds of confused men rustled up to them. Grey Wind had done his job. The Wolf issued a low, deep howl in the night, and Robb drew his longsword, his own men sounding their warhorns in answer. "The King in the North!" He heard one of his men call, a call taken up by the rest of his men as they fell upon the hapless Lannister host in the night.


	41. Book 2 Daenerys II

It was always the worst for them when Joffrey summoned them to the throne room. Daenerys and Sansa had attempted to make themselves pretty for the king, that was how he preferred them, but the Hound, the man with the burned face, had told them that they should come at once, Joffrey would only get angrier if he was forced to wait. She was in a light purple gown, one that he had picked for her. She knew that Joffrey saw it as his own, a piece of his own royal power. So far this had been enough to prevent him from ripping it to shreds before the eyes of others, or spilling blood on it, but today, with the way the Hound was insistent on them coming quickly... who could say.

When they were done, the Hound led them to the throne room, passed a few courtiers whispering to each other. Daenerys hated herself for feeling glad that they were looking at Sansa more than her, that she seemed to be the cause of Joffrey's anger this time, though what was she supposed to have done... she had been here... nothing but obedient, singing the songs that she had been taught to keep her safe.

The throne room was silent. Joffrey was slumped over the Iron Throne, a crossbow in his hands, looking furious, much like her brother had a before. Something had happened that Joffrey had not wanted, but had been powerless to stop. She knew that face enough, Viserys had worn it plenty of times. Glances told her that everyone in the room seemed to know why they had been called here.

"Your Grace," she said, kneeling low. How she had fallen, never to bow to the Usurper, but to bow instead to his son... or not, if the stories were to be told.

Sansa mimicked her and bowed her head. "Kneeling won't save you now," Joffrey spat. "Take the dragon bitch aside, I would speak with my lady." Daenerys felt herself pulled to the side, firmly but gently, by Ser Aron Santagar, the knight from Dorne, ever loyal to her house. She looked back at Joffrey.

"Kneeling won't save you now," the king said. "Stand up. You're here to answer for your brother's latest treasons."

"Your Grace, whatever my traitor brother has done, I had no part. You know that, I beg you, please-"

"Get her up!"

The Hound pulled her to her feet, not ungently.

"Ser Lancel," Joff said, "tell her of this outrage."

Lancel Lannister had looked like people she had seen in the east, people who had gained something valuable and thought it more than a crown. "Using some vile sorcery, your brother fell upon Ser Stafford Lannister with an army of wargs, not three days ride from Lannisport. Thousands of good men were butchered as they slept, without the chance to lift sword. After the slaughter, the northmen feasted on the flesh of the slain."

Pity for Sansa coiled around Daenerys' heart, and squeezed tightly. "You have nothing to say?" asked Joffrey.

Joffrey lifted his crossbow and pointed it at her face. "You Starks are as unnatural as those wolves of yours. I've not forgotten how your monster savaged me."

"That was Arya's wolf," she said. "Lady never hurt you, never!"

"And then your brother stole her away," Joffrey said, "and I will make him pay for that, I will kill him. I wish I'd done it that day. I killed a man last night who was bigger than your brother. They came to the gate shouting my name and calling for bread like I was some baker, but I taught them better. I shot the loudest one right through the throat."

"And he died?" With the ugly iron head of the quarrel staring her in the face, Dany wasn't surprised that that was all Sansa could think to say.

"Of course he died, he had my quarrel in his throat. There was a woman throwing rocks, I got her as well, but only in the arm." Frowning, he lowered the crossbow. "I'd shoot you too, but if I do Mother says they'd kill my uncle Jaime. Instead you'll just be punished and we'll send word to your brother about what will happen to you if he doesn't yield."

Dany paled, she knew that tone, the words didn't matter, she knew what followed that tone. She wanted to look away, but that wouldn't help Sansa, and Joffrey would likely punish her as well if she did. Any excuse to do so, he took, punishing the two of them was a favourite pastime of his.

"Boros," Joffrey said, "Meryn." Dany winced as Boros Blount slammed a gauntleted fist into Sansa's stomach, knocking the air from her. "Leave her face," Joffrey said. "I like her pretty."

Dany forced herself to watch as Meryn pulled out his sword and started laying the flat of it against her thighs. Sansa was weeping and pleading for mercy.

"Enough," the Hound called.

"No!" Joffrey said. "Harder, make Robb Stark hear her."

The two knights continued to punch and beat Sansa, as per Joffrey's orders, leaving her face.

"What is going on here?" Silence fell as everyone turned to the entrance of the Throne Room. The King's uncles were marching through. The elder one, his moustache neat and trimmed and his expression stern, leading the way, his younger counterpart coming up from behind, having to take three steps for every one of his brother's, and he looked furious. Behind them came a force of Lannister soldiers. "This seems beyond the behaviour of a knight, sers," the Hand of the King said plainly.

"We obey the King, my lord," Ser Boros said simply. "In all things."

The Hand was approaching the throne and the two Kingsguard stepped between them, swords out. The Hound walked over, but his sword remained in it's scabbard. The Hand of the King merely beckoned and a score of Lannister swords were at his back. "Put away your blades, sers," he said, calmly, but very clearly threatening them. "I would hate to have to give those cloaks to men more worthy."

The knights glanced at each other before gently sliding their swords into their sheaths. "Your Grace," the Hand said, walking around the Kingsguard and not looking at them at all, like they meant nothing to him anymore. "I know you mourn for your uncles and cousins who perished at Oxcross, but this is not the appropriate way to show your grief."

"I'm punishing her," Joffrey insisted. Thanks to the steps, he was still looking down at his uncle.

"For what crimes?" Tyrion Lannister interrupted the two. "She did not fight her brother's battles."

"She has the blood of the wolf!"

"And you have the-"

"Tyrion," the Hand warned, holding out his hand to placate his brother. "Help Lady Sansa to her feet." Tyrion did so, but Daenerys' eyes were fixed on Joffrey and his uncle. "Your Grace, you have two ears and one mouth, you should use them in that proportion. Reigns find themselves cut short when kings dispense wanton brutality... against their people and their queens."

"Mother says fear is better than love," Joffrey replied petulantly. It was a sentiment he shared with Viserys. He pointed at Sansa. "She fears me."

"She does," Loren Lannister admitted, nodding. "But Robb Stark, Renly Baratheon, Stannis Baratheon, they do not, and they are the ones in open rebellion." Joffrey moved to interrupt, but the Hand kept speaking. "The Mad King tried to rule through fear, and your noble father, the late King Robert, did not fear him, and became king as a result. No one mourned the Mad King's passing, nor should they have."

Joffrey seemed mollified by the mention of his father. Viserys dreamed of being like Rhaegar, did this boy dream of being Robert Baratheon? It would seem he did.

"Your Grace, please, go and mourn in private, alone. There are many petitioners waiting to attend court, allow me to shoulder your burden for the day, I doubt that is helping you, older, more experienced, and wiser men than you have felt the burden of stress weaken them."

Joffrey seemed angry at being told that there were better men than he, but after one look into his uncle's eyes, his eyes dropped. "Yes," he said. "I must go and mourn our losses."

He left the room quickly, his Kingsguard following behind him.

Loren Lannister ascended the Iron Throne, and when he sat upon it he looked a thousand times the king that Joffrey was. "Tyrion, please take the Lady Sansa to my tower."

"My Lord," she said, stepping forwards. Loren Lannister fixed her with his deep green eyes. "Please, may I go with the Lady Sansa?"

He contemplated for a moment, then nodded, dismissing her with a wave as the Lannister guardsman, led by the Lord Loren's top knight, formed up around the throne. She hurried after Tyrion Lannister who, along with a clansman and his pet sellsword, were guiding Sansa Stark from the throne room.

"Unless you have business for the throne," the knight boomed. "Clear the court!"

Tyrion led them to a part of the Keep she had never been to, the Tower of the Hand. "Maester Frenken will see to your injuries, my Lady," Tyrion said, as he led her to a bedchamber. Sansa lay down on the bed and Daenerys took her hand. "I will return shortly."

Daenerys stayed with Sansa as a maester in grey robes rubbed a sweetly smelling ointment into the welts on her legs and felt the side of her chest for broken bones.

The Maester left shortly, and Daenerys and Sansa stayed, silent, as Sansa broke down and wept for her injuries.

Not long afterwards, there was a knock at the door, and Daenerys helped Sansa to sit up and fold her dress straight. When Sansa nodded to her, she called out that it was okay to enter, and the two Lannister brothers entered the chamber, the elder carrying a tray of food, the younger, a jug of water, placing them on the table.

"You held court quickly, brother," Tyrion teased.

Loren scoffed. "Tell Joffrey there is work to be done, and he scurries away. I only had to clear the room for a few minutes and then left to do more important things." He glanced at Sansa. "I am sorry for my nephew, my lady," he said.

"We know you aren't to blame," Tyrion added. "You have the right to know why he was so wroth with you."

"Yes," Loren said. "Tell me, my lady, was your brother always so disobedient? For he always seems to do everything but what others want him to." She heard the tone of respect in his voice, but Sansa looked only confused. "Six nights ago, your brother fell on our uncle, Stafford Lannister, at the village of Oxcross. He won a crushing victory, we only heard this morning."

"That's terrible, my lord," Sansa sang to him. "I hope my brother dies a traitor's death for this."

"Of course," Loren said, not buying her facade for a second. "My Lady, I see to the needs of the realm. Your Brother has not achieved his independence yet, which means for now, he is a rebel. Any harm that comes to you, harms the Lannister cause. For this reason I am moving you here, to these chambers, my men will watch over you. I will have your possessions sent for."

"My lord," she said. "Please, there is no need."

"Need does not come into it, my lady," Loren replied simply. "You are moving here. From here you can sing your tune only a little while longer. This marriage to my nephew will not mend the rift between Stark and Lannister, it will not go ahead, Tyrion and I agree on this. My men will keep you safe from Joffrey, and ever bedding him."

Daenerys felt saddened, Sansa had become quite the companion to her.

"My Lord," Sansa said. "Please, I know you mean well, but your men are Lannisters, I... couldn't."

"I understand well enough," Tyrion said. "If you prefer, I could grant some of my own clansmen, or perhaps some of the women, if that will make you feel more at ease."

Sansa looked at the bed. "Please, my lords, unless they will protect me from ghosts, they cannot guard me. My father's ghost, and those of his men inhabit these walls."

"Ghosts cannot harm, my lady," Loren dismissed.

"But they can haunt," Sansa replied at once. "My Lord," she added.

Loren nodded. "True enough. Perhaps a friend then," he turned to Daenerys. "Would you be willing to stay with Lady Sansa?" He asked her. "I am sure this place holds more ghosts for you than anyone. You can comfort each other."

"I... thank you, my lord," she said. "I will, gladly." She felt Sansa squeeze her hand in thanks.

Tyrion nodded. "It is settled then. I will have Daenerys' things sent for brother."

"Please do," Loren said. "In the meantime, I will have some men assigned to you, go nowhere without them, and you will not come to harm."

"Please, my lord," she asked Lord Loren, "which chamber will I be having?"

Loren looked around. "You will join Lady Sansa in this one, you can ward off the ghosts in the night together."

"Yes, my lord," she said.

"Good," Loren said. "Come Tyrion, we have work to do, before Joffrey makes more of a mess for us to clean, and Robb Stark has now robbed us of yet another army to use." He glanced at Sansa, "it may be the case that you will be going home sooner than expected."

They left, and Daenerys wrapped her arms around Sansa consolingly. As Sansa wept into her shoulder, tears of pain, sorrow and relief all at once, Daenerys thought on what this meant. Another victory for Sansa's brother, and Lord Loren said that Sansa might be going home sooner than expected because of it. She prayed not. As much as she wanted Sansa to be free of Joffrey, Dany didn't know if she'd be able to cope alone, and she hadn't heard anything from Ser Aron beyond passing courtesies since he took her to the cellars to see the dragon skulls.


	42. Book 2 Lyonel I

Lyonel had been to Storm's End before, but when camped outside it with an army, it seemed a thousand times more imposing. His father had been busy, they had arrived a paltry five thousand men and arms, with supplies and tents, and now they had erected siege engines aplenty from the nearby woods of the Stormlands. Another lord might have arranged for battering rams, ladders and trebuchets, but not his father. Lord Stannis knew the defences of Storm's End, likely better than the lord of the Castle did, the wall was too tall for ladders, a ram would be destroyed before it got more than one blow against the gate and there wasn't a trebuchet that had been built that was capable of fracturing the walls of Storm's End. His father had built two great towers with which to assault the walls and overwhelm the garrison, draped in cured hides as protection from the hail of flaming arrows and bolts that would answer their approach.

However, his father had also constructed two man-made hillocks, facing out to the west. Two scorpions were on top of each of them, with enough room for many archers as well, and behind each one was a mangonel, ready to hurl stones at Renly's oncoming army. These hillocks had been surrounded by a ditch and stakes and were locked by a wooden redoubt on the right flank and a heavy wood to the left, forcing an approaching army to arrive down the centre, right where Lord Stannis would place his infantry, before which would be lain a dozen feet of caltrops. Uncle Renly was coming with a great host at his back, four times his number and all armoured knights, and still his father meant to break them. Or at least, four times as many as when they first landed, but they also no longer numbered that five thousand. More men had come to join them daily, men at arms and archers mostly, but even some knights in plate mail, and woodsmen from the hills, and when they arrived, his father analysed them and folded them into his plan to face Renly in battle.

"How goes fares the fleet, Lyonel?" His father asked him at the war council that evening.

"Well, father," he replied. "They maintain a close watch of the entrance." Ser Davos knew where the entrances by way of the sea were, and had advised Lyonel in setting up his watches there. "No one will deliver food that way."

His father's face was in a taut and hard. "My brother will arrive tomorrow," he told his lords. "He has rushed from Bitterbridge with his horse and has overstretched his baggage train. He will need to fight or flee when he arrives."

"One blow father," he replied. "He will likely entrust his vanguard to the Knight of the Flowers, to charge us first, we break them and send them reeling, and Renly's host may retreat."

"Or he may try again," Stannis said. "But he will have only one day. We remain a motley force in the eyes of his lords and knights. If we can repel him for but one day, his army should fall apart, if we cannot defeat him in detail." Lyonel remained unsure of that fact. Holding Reny off, or driving him to retreat would be possible, but a defeat in detail... short of capturing Renly or killing him in the battle, he didn't see that as possible. He shouldn't be thinking that, whatever his faults, Renly was still his uncle... his blood. "I intend to offer to speak to Renly," he said. "We shall talk when he arrives, and I shall give him a day to consider. If he refuses to bend the knee to his rightful king, then we face him in battle, and his men and horses may find themselves going to battle on empty stomachs. Renly will not dare have the realm him thinking that he is a coward, and attack me before then."

"And when dawn comes," Lyonel said. "He will be charging into us with the sun behind us." Lyonel knew that his father had not intended that. He had meant to fight Renly at once, had sworn that he wouldn"t treat with Renly while he called himself king, but Shireen had convinced him otherwise.

Stannis nodded. "His men will be half blind, and reeling from that when the arrows begin to fall, his army will break."

"A fine plan, Your Grace," lord Velaryon said robustly. "Who shall have the commands in the battle, should it come to that?"

"I will determine after my talks with Renly," Stannis said. "When I have time to gauge the strength of his host. Lyonel, you shall remain here during the talks, maintain a strong watch on the camp."

Lyonel felt his heart sink, he should be at his father's side. But if he needed him here... "Of course, father."

His father glanced to the Lady Melisandre, who stared at him. "Leave us," he said.

Lyonel bit back a retort. It was said only Melisandre could comfort him to sleep these days. Was it true? He hated it, hated the Red Woman for taking his mother's place, and could not help but resent his father for doing so. His mother deserved better than to have her place taken by a witch. But his father was his king and his king was his father, so he left the tent and returned to his own.

He walked through the camp, spread out as it was. He passed footmen roasting sausages and quail over fires, a few knights sparring and archers testing themselves at the butts. But the sun was dying, and so most were returning to their tents. For some reason, despite the fact that the news of Renly's approach seemed to be common knowledge, there was less fear in the camp than Lyonel expected. Perhaps the trickle of reinforcements had been enough to raise their spirits, or perhaps thisnew god that was infecting his father's soldiers, but whatever the reason they had faith that King Stannis would lead them to victory.

When he got to his tent he placed his bow on it's stand next to his quiver. His father would give him command of one of the hillocks of archers during the battle, he knew it, and just hoped he could shoot enough arrows at Renly's host to make a difference. He heard the tent flap rustle. "You're back," he said, turning to his sister.

She nodded, taking off her thick woollen cloak, protection against the sea breeze. "And so are you," she replied. She had slept in that morning, claiming to have had a bad night, so Lyonel left her alone as he went about his daily duties. "I'm sorry about this morning," she said. "I was... unnecessarily curt with you, you didn't deserve it."

"You're my sister," he replied simply "I'm not angry, And I think you had another dream, didn't you?"

She nodded. "Uncle Robert," she said. "He told me to avenge his dishonour, to see that Cersei, Jaime and their children die for this insult to him and his house."

"And we will," Lyonel reminded her, taking her in his arms again, where he could comfort her.

She squirmed. "I'll set up my own tent," she said. "I don't want to disturb you."

"You won't," he said. "And I know the real reason why you want to be in a different tent."

"Brother," she reminded him, looking up. "That rumour is vile and disgusting. No doubt the Lannisters are to blame, but I would not lend further credence to the idea of us... sinning that way... we would never... not incest... not us."

"No," Lyonel agreed. "We wouldn't, and we never have, and I would rather keep you safe by me for now than in another tent, where another might harm you. Your safety is worth a thousand scorns to me." He remembered vividly the day when they'd heard the rumour at Storm's End. Baratheons were famous for their fury, but it was their mother who had raged like a storm when she'd heard the news. She didn't normally scare him, but he'd wanted to scurry from the room like a whipped dog at her venting fury. Shireen had cowered behind him while she raged and it had taken much to calm her down. She'd wanted the heads of those who dare slander her children in that way. Lyonel had promised them to her, all of them. Shireen rarely showed her anger, but she had bee furious at the High Septon. That man was supposed to be the gods' representative on this earth, and yet here he was, pandering to the Lannisters and their sinful ilk. The faith may have to be purged as well, reminded what faith was. When they won, they would see to it all.

He felt Shireen surrender to his arms and wrap herself around him. "Are you ready?" She asked him.

"I don't know if anyone can ever be ready for their first battle, but I have practiced, I know the land and I know my archers."

"I believe in you," she whispered into his chest. "And I'll pray for you."

"Then I have nothing to fear."

She pulled back and smiled wryly. "I hope my prayers are so strong."

He gripped her shoulder reassuringly. "I'm sure they are, I've never met anyone as faithful as you. But I want you to promise me something."

"What?" She asked.

"When the battle lines are drawn up, I want you back on the ship. Battle is no place for a woman, and I would have you stay safe."

Shireen bit her lip, but nodded. "As you say, but you have to promise to come back to me."

He nodded, hand on heart. "Always."

"That's all I need."

A rustling made them look over at the tent entrance. A page stuck his head through. Lyonel clenched a fist; he should have announced himself first, he suspected that the page's youth made him forget this, but he rather suspected that the boy may have wanted to see whether or not his King's Children were behaving according to the rumours. "What is it?" He asked, "why are you here boy?"

"F-forgive me, my prince, but your father wanted to see you."

He nodded. "Very well then, we'll come now."

They made their way to their father, who was standing atop one of the hillocks, Ser Davos and Lady Melisandre at a shoulder a piece. Looking beyond, Lyonel saw the whisps of smoke or dust twirling into the air, either cookfires or the dust kicked up by an army on the move. Either way, it could only mean one thing. Renly had arrived. The sun was low in the sky, so it was unlikely that he would commit to battle, particularly after such a ride to get here, but still. "Your uncle has come." Stannis said when they reached him. "As I suspected, he rushed ahead. His host is all mounted, no archers, no supporting foot soldiers, just knights, the only worthwhile soldiers according to my brother and he has brought nearly twenty thousand of them." He shook his head in distaste. "Lyonel, are the men ready?"

He nodded. "They are, father, or they will be."

"Good, see to it that they are, I will not be defeated by Renly. We'll show him what war is soon enough."

"Is that is, father?" Shireen asked.

Stannis glanced at his daughter. "What are you talking about?"

"Renly is still your brother, whatever else he is."

"Whatever else he is is a traitor," he replied at once. "I will not treat with him while he presumes to wear my crown, sit on my throne. It is Lyonel's throne before Renly's, it is _your_ throne before his."

"And he is still our blood," Shireen insisted fiercely. "You owe him the chance to kneel before you. There is a chance that he may be willing to kneel, once he sees how committed you are." Stannis looked darkly over at the smoke or dust. "Please, father. If you defeat Renly and he is killed, you'll never forgive yourself."

"Shireen, has a point, father," Lyonel said. "I am confident, but battle is never a surety. Especially against a host so much larger than ours."

Stannis looked at them both. "You're brother can't fight now, your grace," Ser Davos spoke up. "And unless you plan to attack him, neither can you. It might serve to send a messenger, call for talks. He may be willing to surrender, and if not it doesn't harm you."

His father looked from Ser Davos, to Shireen, to him to the Red Priestess, who inclined her head in a half nod. "Very well then. One meeting, to give him the chance to kneel. If he doesn't then it is battle."

"As you say, father," Lyonel said.

"Shireen, Davos, Melisandre, you will accompany me, Lyonel, you will remain here, keep order in the camp until we return."

Having gotten the concession of a meeting, Lyonel didn't object. "As you command father."

He and Shireen returned to their tent as Stannis sent Davos to organise a messenger. "Twenty thousand knights," Shireen whispered, concern making her voice quiver like reeds in the wind. "Can we beat such a force?"

"It's... a lot," he said. She knew he was just as worried as her, she always knew. "But I'm worried about you, be careful at the talks."

"I'll be fine," she said, touching his arm gently. "If Renly tried anything, it would ruin him for Kingship, and Renly is all about his image."

Lyonel nodded. "I know, but... be careful."

The talks had to be a success, or Lyonel didn't know if they could beat Renly in battle. As he helped Shireen ready her horse for when she accompanied father, he couldn't help but feel troubled, he wished that there was something he could do to assist with these talks, but not if he was stuck here. As long as he was here, it was in his sister's hands. At least they were as good as they came.


	43. Book 2 Shireen II

Shireen didn't like that the priestess carried her father's banner to the peace talks. A dozen knights rode behind them, all men from the islands of the Narrow Sea, father not wanting to reveal that knights from the Stormlands had been supplementing his force, or to open them to Renly's chivalric charisma. Her father himself did not come to the talks armoured. His new, glowing sword, Lightbringer, was at his hip, but otherwise he wore a studded leather jerkin, roughspun, brown breeches and worn boots. The crown on his head was forged of Red-Gold, the tips like lapping tongues of fire. She didn't like it, no more than she liked the banner fluttering above their head in the hand of the Priestess. Gone was the gold of House Baratheon, and gone was the proud black stag. In their place was a field of yellow with a flaming heart in the middle. If one strained hard enough, they could make out the head of a black stag, engulfed in the flames, but Shireen knew most would not care to look so hard.

Renly would come with the pure Baratheon banner, she knew. Renly. Why had the gods made it that the true Baratheon king bore a false banner, and the false Baratheon king the true banner? They reached the meeting point to find it deserted. Not that she was surprised. Renly would no doubt be only mounting his horse now, having seen them arrive, he wasn't one to wait. Her father had been denied what was his his whole life, he was well enough practiced at waiting.

"Brother!" A hatefully cheerful voice sounded. Renly was coming to the grassy knoll, seven men behind him in different coloured suits of armour, with different coloured cloaks at his back. This would be his rainbow guard then, uncle Renly's more colourful version of the Kingsguard.

The traitor Baratheon was splendid in his green velvet doublet and satin cloak trimmed in vair. A crown of golden roses girded his temples, with a jade stag's head rising over his forehead, long black hair spilling out beneath. Jagged chunks of black diamond studded his swordbelt, and a chain of gold and emeralds looped around his neck. Sure enough, atop a twelve foot lance, the chosen knight who bore the banner bore the gold and black of House Baratheon. "A dozen knights, Stannis, if you can call them that," he jested. "One might think you scared to meet with me."

She felt anger rise. How dare he, he, who had never fought a battle in his life, accuse her father of cowardice! "At least father doesn't surround himself with yes men to tell him pretty tales," she told him.

"Your daughter has quite the tongue, brother," Renly replied, not harmed at all by what Shireen had said. "Perhaps you should have brought your son instead."

"My daughter is more of a son than you will ever have," Stannis replied simply, and she felt a smile grace her features.

"At least you've had the foresight to change your banners," Renly said, brushing off the subject of children. "If we both used the same one the battle would be terribly confusing. But there needn't be a battle," he continued. "And I must confess, I didn't think there would be one here, at Storm's End. Why are you here, Stannis?"

"The Iron Throne is mine, by rights and laws," her father replied at once. "All those who deny that are my foes."

"The whole of the realm denies it, brother," said Renly. "Old men deny it with their death rattles, and unborn children deny it in their mothers" wombs. They deny it in Dorne and they deny it on the Wall. No one wants you for their king. Sorry."

Her father clenched his jaw, his face taut. "I swore I would never treat with you while you wore your traitor's crown. Would that I had kept to that vow."

"I recommended that father come talk to you, uncle," Shireen said. She may have jibed at Renly before, but it was wrong, she should have been persuading him to see the right. "Do the right thing, accept that you are the younger brother, and my father's bannerman."

"I will let you keep Storm's End, and your place on the Council," her father added. "You can even keep your bride, whatever your interest is. I wonder, was it you she married, or that crown above your head."

"Oh, she married me, that much is certain," he replied simply.

Stannis scoffed. "We both know your wedding was a mummer's farce. A year ago you were scheming to make the girl one of Robert's whores."

"A year ago I was scheming to make the girl Robert's queen," Renly said, "but what does it matter? The boar got Robert and I got Margaery. You'll be pleased to know she came to me a maid."

"In your bed she's like to die that way."

"Oh, I expect I'll get a son on her within the year," Renly dismissed. "And if we talk of proposals, I have one myself. I propose you dismount, bend the knee before me and swear me your fealty."

Her father ground his teeth. "I will not bow to you. That will never happen."

"No?" Renly asked. "And why not? You bowed to Robert easily enough."

"Robert was the elder brother, you are the younger."

"Younger," Renly admitted. "Bolder, and far more comely."

"And a thief," Shireen said. "And a Usurper besides."

"The Targaryens called Robert a Usurper, he could bare the shame, and so will I." He sighed. "I tire of this talk, Stannis. Your claim may be better than mine, but my army is larger than yours. Here." He reached inside his cloak, and father went towards his sword. Shireen held her breath, but Renly only drew out... a peach? "Would you like one, it comes from Highgarden, the sweetest peach you will ever taste."

"I am here for your fealty, Renly. Not your fruit," Stannis replied angrily.

"A man should never refuse to taste a peach. He may never get the chance again. Life is short, Stannis. Remember what the Starks say. Winter is coming." Stannis ground his teeth. "Ah well," Renly continued, taking a large bite out of his fruit, wiping away the juice with the back of his glove. "A fruit may be a blessing for your tongue, but perhaps it is your eyes that need help. Look across the field, brother, you see all those banners?"

Shireen could not help but scoff. She had hoped that by coming to talk, to listen to her father, Renly might be open to accepting his place. She had held back her tongue so that Renly would see her father as a king, rather than a set piece as his daughter, a being of the weaker sex, spoke for him. But it was clear Renly would never be convinced to remove his crown, nor would the notion come upon him alone. "Renly, bolts of cloth do not make you king."

"Tyrell swords will make me king. Rowan and Tarly and Florent will make me king, with axe and mace and warhammer. Tarth arrows and Penrose lances, Fossoway, Cuy, Mullendore, Estermont, Selmy, Hightower, Oakheart, Crane, Caswell, Blackbar, Morrigen, Beesbury, Shermer, Dunn, Footly... even House Caron, your own wife's brother, they will make me king." Shireen hated that her uncle had been forced to choose between his wife's family and the man to whom he owed his direct fealty. But it seemed he had made the wrong choice. Bryce was younger than her mother, and more like Renly than Stannis. She hoped he would see the truth. The only consolation they had had about this was a raven, come to Dragonstone after the letters had been sent out. Lord Caron had ridden with his liege lord Renly, but the majority of his strength remained at Nightsong.

But it seemed Renly was not done. "All the chivalry of the south rides with me, and that is the least part of my power. My foot is coming behind, a hundred thousand swords and spears and pikes. And you will destroy me? With what, pray? That paltry rabble I see there huddled under the castle walls? I'll call them five thousand and be generous, codfish lords and onion knights and sellswords. Half of them are like to come over to me before the battle starts. You have fewer than four hundred horse, my scouts tell me, freeriders in boiled leather who will not stand an instant against armoured lances. I do not care how seasoned a warrior you think you are, Stannis, that host of yours won't survive the first charge of my vanguard."

Oh how Renly heard what he wanted. They numbered closer to seven thousand men than five, and eight hundred horse than four. It was a little hope, but hope none the less. She reminded herself of her brother's face. Lyonel was confident, and if he was confident, she had no reason to be otherwise. He was her strength, and she was his.

"And that vanguard will gladly fight for me," Renly continued. "They all know your letter Stannis. Just as they all know the others. It would seem if they fight for the Lannisters or if they fight for you, they are only supporting those who would have incest in the bed of kings."

"Renly!" She screamed at him, as her father all but snarled.

"You will not insult my children Renly, not to my, face, do you hear me, never!" He drew his sword and several horses reared away from the light that came from the magic blade.

One of Renly's knights came between them. "Put up your steel!" He declared.

"I do not wish to slake Lightbringer in the blood of my own brother," her father declared, sliding it back into it's scabbard. "This is your only chance, Renly. I give you until dawn to strike your banners and accept me as your king. I will even forgive that slight and falsehood you sprout about my children. Otherwise, I shall destroy you."

 _Destroy him anyway, father_ , Shireen thought, her mind half clouded by hatred. It was good that Lyonel wasn't here, if he was, he would have drawn his arrow and put it through Renly's heart the minute he had uttered that hateful insult. Renly had been kind before. Foolish, but kind... how could he... "It seems our talks have been for nothing then, brother," Renly said. "We shall meet at dawn."

Shireen took her reigns in hand, about to turn her horse when a cry came from her right, and she spun around. "Father!" She screamed. Her father was clutching at the right side of his chest... and the arrow protruding from it.

"The king!" She heard one of the knights call and they rode forward, shields raised and swords out. One of them was just in time, putting his shield between her father and a second arrow, as another came to shield her from the ambush.

Shireen turned back to her uncle. "How could you Renly!" She screamed. Kinslayer... of all the titles Rely sought to claim, she never though kinslayer would be one of them. "We came here under a banner of peace!" But for once Renly looked flustered, the charm gone from his face, replaced with confusion. His knights had moved forward a little, but seemed as lost as their leader.

"I-I never," he said, tripping over his words. "Not I... not-" His words were cut out as he grunted in pain, his chest recoiling as an arrow punched through his heart, a dark liquid began to spread across his doublet.

"Your Grace!" His banner carrier screamed in a voice unlike any knight Shireen had ever heard. But they were not fast enough, a second arrow punched through Renly's chest and he slumped across his horse's neck before sliding off it and landing in the grass with a dull thud, the half eaten peach rolling out from his doublet and down the hill.

"Run!" Shireen screamed at the knights. "Protect father and run back to the camp, now!" They turned and raced away from the meeting spot, leaving Renly's rainbow guard in complete disarray. She reached out to steady her father as one of his knights did so from the other side. They had to find Lyonel; he would know what to do. He had to. What if the assassins had gotten to him too? No, not her brother, they couldn't. The gods wouldn't rob her of her father and brother at once. She looked back at Renly's host. Those men who had come here to undo her father and his claim to the throne were suddenly kingless. _They have to come to us_ , she realised. The assassins had failed, Stannis Baratheon still lived, would still live, she was certain of it. Where else would these men turn but to the last branch of House Baratheon? King Robert was dead, all his children bastards and imposters put in the place of his trueborns. Renly murdered by assassins, with no children of his body to follow him. Only Stannis remained. Stannis and Lyonel. Her father and her brother. They were the men who Renly's army could rally behind to defeat the Lannisters. They had to see it for themselves, they had to.


	44. Book 2 Tristan III

Tristan felt glad that he was back in the Riverlands, but also disheartened that, once again, he had provided Robb with failure. Renly had demanded that he come with them to the battle with Stannis, to see what they faced in him if they refused to bend.

They had stayed only a single night at Riverrun. Grandfather still clung to life like a particularly persistent barnacle. His mother was glad to see him, and it seemed that Robb was still winning victory after victory. He had smashed the Lannister host in the Westerlands at Oxcross, taken Ashemark and was paying the Lannisters back in kind for all the harm they had wrought to his own people. Edmure was certain that Tywin would likely march west at this point, he couldn't allow Robb to continue to harry his lands with impugnity. For a man like Tywin Lannister, who relied on fear and an image of strength, allowing Robb to continue to spread damage and destruction over his domains could risk sparking a revolt against him. "You intend to block him at the Trident?" He asked Edmure, who nodded.

"I do," he said. "No Lannister host will march across the Riverlands unblooded again. I have called the banners to me, they will not cross the trident."

Tristan nodded. Good, too long had the Starks bled against the Lannisters and Tywin would not stop Robb from reaping vengeance. "I will ride hard for my host then," he said. "We shall take Harrenhal when Lord Tywin departs the castle. Then, with me to his east and you blocking his way west, Lord Tywin will have to march south." He had seen Renly's host. Let Lord Tywin Lannister and the would be king Renly Baratheon bleed each other there. All the while, Robb could take the wealth of the Westerlands from the Lannisters without interference.

Tristan left the next day. Saying goodbye to his mother and riding hard for the Twins. Thankfully, now invested in the war, Lord Walder made no demands of him in order to cross. Or perhaps it was the four hundred men under Helman Tallhart that made him see things clearly. Either way, he was able to cross the Trident without problems. Lord Bolton had taken the Ruby Ford in his absence, so there would be no Lannister men in this part of the Riverlands, meaning he could ride with speed for his host, eager to do battle once more.

It was all for nought, Lord Bolton had taken Harrenhal three days before he arrived. The flayed man and the Direwolf hung from Harrenhal's towers, as well as the banner of all the other lords present in the camp. He felt his anger surge. Not only had he been sent on a failed mission of peace, he had missed out on another battle to fight.

Shield and Nymeria seemed to share his anger. Shield was seething, his head bowed low to the ground, fangs bared and a low growl in his throat, but Nymeria was being impatient, bounding around, seemingly eager to be off. He may have to let her go and hunt to let the energy out.

Men announced his arrival as he crossed the bridge and entered the great ruined castle. It was an unseemly blight upon the landscape, large and imposing, to be sure, but a garrison large enough to man the entire castle would consume as much food as the host currently manning it. Someone should have torn it down to half size long ago, if not more. House Frey could occupy the castle and have a thousand rooms to spare.

"Prince Tristan has returned!" Someone called as he pulled up to a stop. Men were enjoying the spoils of their victory. The bodies of the Lannister watchmen were hung around the courtyard, the minor garrison left behind seemingly overwhelmed by Roose Bolton's assault. Yet curiously, there didn't seem to be many northman casualties around. The Lannister garrison should have inflicted some losses on the northmen, yet he could see only six.

"Prince Tristan," he turned to see Robett Glover approaching, his guards around him. He bowed as Tristan dismounted. "We did not think to see you so soon."

"I rushed to be in time for the battle," he explained. "But even so I was too late."

"Hardly a battle my prince," Robett consoled him. "Lord Bolton secured the allegiance of Lord Tywin's sellswords, whom he left behind. Lord Bolton wanted to attack with them and overwhelm the enemy, bleeding the sellswords first, but I suggested we use the Sellswords to take Harrenhal from within."

"It's a good plan," Tristan told him, and it was one which he wouldn't have thought of. But there was something he still couldn't work out. "Which Sellswords?" He couldn't remember which ones, but they weren't savoury, he remembered that much.

Robett seemed to grimace. "They call themselves the Brave Companions, though the men more call them the bloody mummers. An unsavoury lot to say the least, and their Qohorik leader, the Goat, we call him, is a vicious bastard."

Then it struck Tristan. "They were burning the lands of the Trident when I left," he said.

Robett nodded. "Aye, I would sooner put them to the sword as well and be done with it. But they have been uprooting nearby Lannister garrisons in the same manner as Harrenhal, so they do seem to have some uses."

"Some," Tristan replied. "I hope we aren't giving them anything." Robett bit his lip and Tristan sighed. "What have we given them?"

"Lord Bolton granted the Goat Harrenhal."

Tristan did a double take. "He gave _Harrenhal_ to that man!?"

"Let the curse of Harrenhal take him before a northman, he said."

Ah yes, the curse. Tristan would not wish it's fate on any, to be sure. Every house that had ever ruled Harrenhal had come to a grisly end, as had every lord, he was unsurprised that Lord Bolton had passed it off onto another. But still, the Goat? He might petition Robb to have Harrenhal torn down. Half it's stone would be of better use elsewhere anyway. "Well, I suppose I should meet with Lord Bolton. Take me to him."

"Of course," Robett said.

He called out for Elmar to take care of his horse, and Daryn and Domeric to come with him.

They ascended the steps of Harrenhal's main keep into a room where Lord Bolton had set up his command place. Lord Bolton was sat with the other lords of this host, all of whom got to their feet and bowed when he entered. "My Prince," he said in his soft voice. "I had not expected you so soon."

"That's okay," he said. "You have been busy in the time I have been gone. Harrenhal, quite a prize."

"All in our king's name, my prince," Roose replied softly. "Now Lord Tywin is trapped between us here and Ser Edmure at the trident."

"Indeed," he replied, sitting down himself. "He will be halted at the Trident and will only be able to retreat south, leaving Robb free to ravage the west. But we must decide what we are to do here."

His lords nodded. A Frey spoke up, thin and spindly, but the way he spoke was like a soldier. "We have been clearing out Lannister garrisons nearby," he said. "Though they still hold several holdfasts in the area."

"Let the Mummers clear them out," said Robett Glover, taking his seat at the table. "It's all they are useful for."

That met with murmurs of ascent. "Secure the Trident and let Lord Stannis and Lord Tywin battle in the south."

"Lord Stannis?" Tristan asked, confused. "Not Lord Renly?"

Roose Bolton shook his head. "A raven was sent from the capital, it arrived yesterday, they seemed to have hoped to catch Lord Tywin before he departed. The Baratheon brothers met at Storm's End, to talk, not to fight. What happened is... unclear, but Lord Stannis was injured, Lord Renly slain, and his host went over to his brother, almost to a man."

Tristan's fingers curled into a fist. Of course his mission would surmount to nothing at all, gods curse it all. "A Lannister garrison remains at Castle Darry." The Frey brought up. "They are led by Ser Parmen Banefort. The Goat says that the knight never trusted him."

"A wise one, it seems," Tristan replied. He ached to lead the assault himself. But leading such an irrelevant assault had gotten the Kingslayer captured by Robb. He looked around the table. The Frey had brought him the news, he decided, why not let him take the castle. "Forgive me, Ser, it has been a long ride, I fear I have forgotten your name?" Better to be a little courteous to those of his brother's realm.

"I have the honour of being Ser Aenys Frey," he replied.

Tristan nodded. "Then, Ser Aenys, I charge you with the recapture of Castle Darry. Take the soldiers of your house and proceed to claim the castle for the King."

"It will be my honour," the Frey knight replied.

Tristan nodded. There wasn't much else they could do, and it irked him. Lord Tywin was to the west, but they didn't have the strength to march on him, far better to let him batter himself against the Trident. "The rest of us shall wait here," he said, "when we hear news from Riverrun, we act again. That will be all for now," he said. The lord around the table got up and got ready to leave. Domeric embraced his father tightly.

"My lord," Roose said. "There is something I must discuss with you."

Tristan nodded. When all but Daryn, Domeric and Roose had left, he turned to the Lord of the Dreadfort. "What is it?"

"My Prince, have you heard about the North?"

"The North?" Tristan asked. "No one's said anything to me. Why, has something happened?"

Roose nodded. "Aye, we have been betrayed. It seems his grace's embassy to the Iron Islands has failed. Balon Greyjoy calls himself king again, and has attacked the North."

"What?!" He got to his feet so fast his chair bounced off the floor. Why had no one sought fit to tell him this?

"Aye, my Prince," Roose said. "They have taken Moat Cailin, Deepwood Motte and Torrhen's Square, and they ravage the western coast."

He slammed his fist on the table. He had only been at Riverrun a night, but why had his mother not seen fit to tell him this?

But this was his chance for battle and glory. Tywin Lannister would retreat south to battle the Baratheon brothers. That meant that the tedious business of cleaning up would begin here. He felt a smile grace his features. There was a chance for battle in the North. If he couldn't spill Lannister blood in the south, then he would spill the blood of Krakens in the North. Then a thought struck him. "What of Theon?"

Roose Bolton shook his head. "We have heard nothing of Theon Greyjoy. It may be his father ignored him, persuaded him to embrace his Ironborn heritage, or slit his throat."

"His own son?" Daryn asked. "Would he do that, surely Kinslaying would be beyond the Ironmen?"

"I would put nothing past Balon Greyjoy," Roose replied simply.

"I will go," Tristan said. He had made his mind up. Robb clearly didn't need him to win the war in the south. But he could still aid his twin in the north. "Lord Bolton, you can maintain defences here. Don't advance too close to King's Landing, but hold the Trident. I will return to the north and drive the Ironmen off."

"Gladly, my Prince," he replied. "My son will accompany you in this endeavour."

"Thank you, Lord Bolton," he said, glad that Domeric would be accompanying him. "What about you Daryn. I would welcome you at my side, but the men of House Hornwood need a leader, and you are the Lord of that House now."

"They do," he replied, earnestly. "But you cannot return to the North alone. With your leave I will take my men back with us."

Tristan turned to Lord Bolton. What with their losses at the Green Fork, did he want to deprive Lord Bolton of more soldiers. But he didn't seem concerned. "Lord Hornwood's soldiers have fought valiantly in his absence," Lord Bolton said, "they helped drive Lannister men from Maidenpool and Saltpans and elsewhere. Unfortunately they were ambushed by the Mountain several weeks ago and are now down and suffered losses. There are still a thousand of them left, but they will be an acceptable loss, and won't affect my fighting strength too much."

"A thousand," Daryn muttered. "My father brought two thousand foot with us, along with three hundred horse."

"I can't speak for the horse," Lord Bolton commented. "They may still be at full strength."

"Robb won't squander them," he assured his friend. "They are in good hands." That seemed to comfort Daryn somewhat. "Very well, I shall collect them up, and we shall march north soon."

That made three, and if they found Cley up there, the four of them could be together again, fighting as one in war for the first time. "Lord Bolton," Tristan asked. "You said that Moat Cailin has been taken?"

He nodded. "It appears to be the main thrust of the Ironborn, to cut us off."

"Well it won't work," Tristan declared. "The Neck may be impassable to them, but not the men of the Crannogs of House Reed. I'll send some riders ahead to draw the attention of the Crannogmen, we can arrange to sneak behind Moat Cailin."

"Moat Cailin is no longer unprotected on the Northern side," Daryn reminded him. "If that was the main thrust, we'll face substantial opposition from them."

"We can gather more men from the Rills and Barrowton, I believe Domeric knows people there. And White Harbour is not far either. They'll all have men to spare."

Daryn nodded. "True, but we can help them." Tristan raised an eyebrow. "If I march up the neck I can draw their attention from the south while you attack from the North. A combined offensive should overwhelm them."

Tristan saw the merit in that plan, but a strong garrison could still decimate them. If they could be persuaded to somehow vacate Moat Cailin in the majority... "The Ironmen love ships more than anything. And they must have landed somewhere."

"The Saltspear," Domeric said. "And I believe there is a river that flows into the Saltspear from the east, the Ironmen are likely to have landed their ships there.

"Then a raid on those ships should draw out the garrison, leaving it free to retake with that combined assault," Tristan concluded.

"You seem to have a plan then," Lord Bolton said, a small, very small, hint of pride in his voice.

He nodded. "Indeed," he said. "We'll rest here for a day or two, then march for the North with the Hornwood men."

"I shall have quarters prepared," Lord Bolton said. There was a knock at the door. "Ah," he said. "Those will be my leeches, will you join me, my Prince."

Tristan had leeched once before. He didn't much like it. Not only did it feel very peculiar, but it required him to lie still for far too long. "I'll leave you to it, Lord Bolton," he said.

The door opened and a small boy with scruffy brown hair entered, the badge of the Dreadfort on his breast. "I have the leeches, m'lord," he said in a familiar voice. He shook his head, he had been in the south so long, voices and accents were likely blurring.

"Good," Lord Bolton said, moving to strip out of his clothes. A sight Tristan did not need to see. He turned to see the boy staring at him, open mouthed.

"Tristan!"

"No," he breathed. He _did_ know that voice. He'd know it anywhere. "Impossible," he rushed over and knelt to the boy's level, seizing his face. Those grey eyes, the same ones he had. "Arya?"

He saw tears form in her eyes and she nodded, dropping the jar which cracked on the ground, and rolled towards the fire. He pulled her in for a fierce hug, squeezing her tightly. "You little bitch," he whispered. "You little horsefaced bitch. What in the seven southern hells are you doing here?"

"I... I was captured," she said. "Lord Tywin's men thought me a peasant boy, so brought me in to work."

"She helped us capture the castle," Roose Bolton explained. "She helped free Robett Glover and his men. My prince, who is this?"

"This is my little sister," he said, letting her go and she gasped for breath. "This is Arya."

After Lord Bolton had apologised for not realising and Daryn and Domeric had greeted Arya in turn, kneeling to their princess, they had to decide what to do. He felt his anger rise at that moment, for he remembered something his mother had told him at Riverrun. "Queen Regent Cersei Lannister swore in open court that she would return Sansa and Arya for Jaime Lannister. How could she make that oath when she didn't have Arya?!"

"Because she never thought it would be accepted," Domeric said at once. She just wanted her brother back."

"Or her lover," Daryn said.

"We can use this," Lord Bolton said. "Do not let the secret out, and we can try and find some way to use this knowledge to our advantage."

"How?" Tristan asked, intrigued.

"I don't know yet," Lord Bolton said. "But keep this under wraps for now. I will ensure no-one finds out here."

"I have to tell mother," he said. "I"ll send a raven, and prepare to send you to her." He said to Arya. He also knew another person who would be glad that Arya was found. His squire, and her betrothed. But he didn"t want to sully their reunion with that. He would tell mother to inform her at Riverrun.

Surprisingly, she didn't object. "It will be good to see her again," she said.

"And Nymeria will, of course go with you," he said.

"Nymeria!?"

"Aye, she's here," he said, smiling and ruffling her rough and uneven hair. "I wonder if her near insistence on coming south was because she knew we would find you again?" She'll come to the chambers, with Shield, you can be re-united with them there."

He escorted Arya to his chambers and called Shield and Nymeria to him. "Watch over her," he told Shield, as Nymeria and Arya began rolling around on the floor, like a child with a new pup. "I'll be right back." He rushed off to the ravenry to pen a letter to mother. He wished he could be there to see her face as she read it, and learned that one of her daughters was safe and sound.

When he came back he had Arya tell him all she could of her journey. She recounted that a Black Brother called Yoren had tried to save her, take her North. How they had been captured by Ser Amory Lorch, who had been fed to the bears. How she had been forced to work in the kitchens, and how a man with two coloured hair had granted her three deaths. His joy at her appearance more than offset his anger at her not using the three names for Tywin Lannister, Joffrey and the Queen. But one couldn't win everything, and she was still a child.

Some clean clothes were provided for her that were a little too large, but soft and a bath in which the muck of the south was scrubbed from her bones. When darkness fell, he pulled her into bed with him, wrapping his right arm around her protectively.

"What are you doing?" She asked.

"Keeping you here," he said. "I just found you. I am not losing you. Now don"t complain, and go to sleep."

She didn't, and she did.


	45. Book 2 Loren IV

"Renly Baratheon is dead," Loren commented to the rest of the small council.

"Indeed, my lord," Varys replied solemnly.

"There seem to be quite a few tales of how it happened. Some say that Lord Stannis arranged negotiations where he had Lord Renly assassinated. Others that Renly tried to assassinate Stannis who fought back. I've heard it said that Robert's ghost came to strike down both Stannis and Renly for trying to usurp his son's throne, or for nearly spilling blood over the ancestral Baratheon home," Littlefinger mused.

"I don't care what the smallfolk say!" Cersei declared, giddy as a little girl with pleasure. "Renly Baratheon, the greatest threat to Joff's reign is dead and his army has scattered."

"Not as much as you may wish, Your Grace. Much of the army that Renly took to Storm's End was a force of armoured knights, and the greatest part of that strength went over to Stannis after his brother died."

Loren knew that his plan had been half successful at most by that fact alone. He had sent the assassins to eliminate both Baratheon brothers and bring an end to this, they had killed the one with the larger army but left the one with the better battle smarts and greater experience for them to contend with. But there was hope at least, Renly's army had been too large, ultimately if they'd arrived at King's Landing, he and his family would have lost. Stannis' army was smaller, elite, armoured and well led, but much more manageable. "What of Stannis?" He asked.

"No word, my lord," Varys said, "his son is denying all access to him, whatever happened to Renly seems to have affected Lord Stannis as well. He survived the negotiation where his brother did not, but I can say no more than that."

"Remorse over killing his brother, no doubt," Tyrion said, sipping on his wine, "Stannis has gained the most from Renly's death, and so he surely was the one behind it."

"Very likely," Loren replied.

"A pity," Tyrion said. "My nephew was so looking forward to putting Renly's head on a spike."

"There are traitors enough for the spikes," Loren replied. "Many of them were Renlys and now are Stannis', who are they?"

"Most of Renly's knightly host," Varys tittered. "Though the greater part of his foot remained at Bitterbridge under Lord Tyrell and several notables from Renly's knightly host, Lord Tarly, Florent and Rowan chief amongst them. The siege continues unabated, Ser Courtnay refuses to believe that Renly is dead and will not open the gates until he sees the mortal remains, which have vanished. Loras Tyrell is responsible for that, most likely I hear that Tarly had to restrain Ser Loras from charging into Stannis' host alone, so red was his rage and deep his sorrow."

Loren nodded. "And it is good that he did so, if Stannis had captured Ser Loras, Lord Mace would be powerless to act against him, he loves Loras too much to risk his harm." He leant forward and steepled his fingers. "We must move quickly to take advantage of this chaos. Tyrell remains at Bitterbridge with a great host and he cannot love Stannis, or he would already be marching beside him."

"They hardly love us, either brother."

"True, but when choosing between two you dislike, you choose the one you hate the least... or the one who can offer the most and fastest. And emotions are easy to attract when they run as hot as Ser Loras'. We must win him to our side and Lord Tyrell might follow."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Cersei asked.

He fixed her with his gaze. _With diplomacy, dear sister,_ he thought. "We have some carrots that we can offer them."

"Golden carrots," Littlefinger said at once.

He shook his head. "I dare say that Lord Tyrell is richer than you are Lord Baelish. No, he has gold aplenty, we must offer him something else. His daughter was a Queen under Renly, and Joffrey is still in need of a wife."

A moment of silence swept around the table. "He is promised to Sansa Stark."

"A marriage that made sense in the days of Robert, not now. Sansa Stark can offer us nothing, Margaery brings fifty thousand swords."

"Joff is determined that he have Sansa," Tyrion pointed out.

"The king is still a boy, when he becomes a man, he may make such choices, until then he will listen to his council." Cersei looked about to respond angrily, but he cut across her. "We have no time to argue the matter, we are not the only ones without an unmarried son, Lord Stannis is a stubborn man and will not have forgotten that the Tyrells besieged him for a year, but give him too much time and he may overcome that and make the same offer, we must make it now, before he does."

"He won't," Cersei insisted.

"Even if he doesn't, the strength he's amassed now, if he marches tomorrow we won't be able to stop him without help. We should thank the seven that ser Courtnay is holding out, but he can't last forever." Loren looked around at each and every one of them, it was vital that they understand this.

"Father will-"

"Come if he can, if not we must look to other allies," he finished. "Now unless anyone else has another objection, we must decide who we send to negotiate. This is Lord Tyrell, we need someone of an appropriate rank to treat with him, someone with the authority to do so."

"Why not you, brother," Cersei suggested at once, "you are the Hand of the King after all, and the King's uncle."

He gritted his teeth. "And I suppose you will lead the defence in my absence? Why not you, Cersei, it would set my heart well at ease to have you out of harm's way." In truth he wanted Cersei in this city where he could keep an eye on her, and certainly not as a diplomat, she'd sooner walk into the midst of the Tyrell camp and demand obedience from every man there than negotiate. But he knew Cersei enough to know that she wouldn't accept.

"I will not leave my children, and I am the regent. My place is here."

"Another then," he said. In truth he already knew who he wanted to lead the delegation to go to the Tyrells.

"What of me?" Asked Littlefinger. "I could go. I am no great hostage to Lord Tyrell, and I dare say I struck up a friendship of sorts with the Knight of the Flowers while he was here with Renly. But I am a veteran of the council, serving under both Robert and our new King Joffrey."

Loren didn't like that one bit. Littlefinger was dangerous when he could keep an eye on him, out from under his gaze... absolutely not. "My Lord Baelish, I mean no insult but if you were to pin your holdings on a map, the pin would be bigger than the holdings. The Tyrells are proud of their heritage and lineage from Garth Greenhand. We must send someone of equal heritage, and a blood relative of the king if possible, fortunately, we have one here. Tyrion." The others all turned to look at Tyrion, who was startled by the suggestion. "You are not a veteran of the council as Lord Baelish is, but you are a Lannister, you've met the Knight of the Flowers before, and you have a glib tongue. As the King's uncle you will have the clout and by our grace you will have the authority to treat with Lord Tyrell."

Tyrion smacked his lips and put his glass of wine down. "I didn't know you thought so highly of my talents brother," he said. "But yes, I dare say that I can speak with Lord Tyrell on this matter."

Loren nodded. "Good." He looked at Cersei, who shot Tyrion a look of daggers but said nothing. No doubt conflicted about getting Tyrion out of the city and yet having him as Joff's official emissary to the biggest rival of the Lannisters on the continent. "That is all we need discuss, this meeting is closed. Tyrion, come to my chambers shortly, and we will discuss what you need for your mission."

Tyrion nodded.

He came later that day. "Me as your emissary brother, I'm flattered."

"The king's emissary, remember that," Loren reminded him.

Tyrion nodded. "Of course."

"Here is what I've put forward as your escort," he slid across a piece of paper. "Four hundred Gold Cloaks for safety, thirty knights and their squires should give you some clout. I also thought you might take one of the Redwyne twins, a sign of good faith, Lord Tyrell is half Redwyne after all, and of course a letter authorising you to treat on our behalf."

"Seems comprehensive," Tyrion commented, scanning the list. "What about my own soldiers, Bronn and my sellswords, or my hill tribesmen."

"The sellswords remain with us, and the Clansmen as well if possible, they will be of great use in the battle. And I doubt it will be a good first impression on Lord Tyrell if you enter his camp flanked by savages and sellswords, would it?"

Tyrion nodded. "I suppose," he said, though he was clearly unhappy about it.

"There is one more matter," Loren said. "You will be bringing one other thing with you, Cersei cannot know until you are out of the city and far from here. But I intend to send Tommen with you."

That took Tyrion aback. "Tommen?"

He nodded. "He is not safe here, and if Joff and Myrcella are here as well as him, if Stannis Baratheon takes the city, we are all dead. You will take Tommen, and if possible, you will see him delivered to father. He will know what to do. But keep him hidden as your squire until then."

"Are you sure it is wise to send Tommen into the Tyrell camp when we are uncertain of their loyalties."

"We have to take risks, if King's Landing falls and he is here, then Tommen is dead. If he is in a loyal holdfast near here and King's Landing falls he will be delivered to King Stannis in golden fetters. If he is with the Tyrells then, well, they may do the same, but this gives us the best chance of having one Lannister candidate remaining."

Tyrion did not look utterly convinced, but could not think of a better place for the prince. "You rob me of my soldiers and ask me to protect a prince."

"Robb Stark has robbed us of soldiers since he entered the war, we all have to be frugal or there won't be any left. Don't worry, what I offer you will more than make up for a few hundred sellswords and savages."

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Oh, and what do you offer?"

Loren raised a piece of parchment. "This is a grant, making you a full lord in your own right. Return with the Tyrells and we shall discuss which castle you would like to have as your own, you will have your pick from the those that belong to the traitors."

Tyrion looked genuinely speechless. "You... you would make me a lord?"

He nodded. "At the stroke of a quill, all I ask in return is an army, the Tyrell army, can you deliver that?"

Tyrion took the paper. "I will make it my life's goal."


	46. Book 2 Lyonel II

The lords who had come with him before Storm's End were laden in plate mail, inlaid with gold and silver and artful designs. His own armour was plain in comparison, and his shoulders ached, unaccustomed to the weight. He was used to wearing lighter armour, studded leather and chain mail, armour in which he could use his bow easily, and trying to shoot a bow in heavy plate was like trying to trim the grass with a greatsword. But he knew he couldn't be outshone too much by his lords, half still saw him as a boy, he had to be their equal.

"Lord Lyonel," Ser Courtnay greeted him. He sat a sorrel stallion, his standard-bearer a dapple grey. Above them flapped Baratheon's crowned stag and the crossed quills of Penrose, white on a russet field. Ser Cortnay's spade-shaped beard was russet as well, though he"d gone wholly bald on top. If the size and splendor of the king's party impressed him, it did not show on that weathered face.

"It is customary to greet a prince with the words my prince," his uncle Bryce Caron said.

Ser Courtnay chose to ignore his uncle and focus instead on him. "This is notable company you have with you, Lord Lyonel. The Lords Estermont, Errol and Varner, Ser Jon of the green Fossoways and Ser Tanton of the reds. Lord Bryce of the Marches, Ser Guyard of King Renly's rainbow guard, and Ser Emmon Cuy as well. I spy your father's Onion Knight as well, well met Ser Davos. And of course your own fair sister." He scanned the party. "But I do not see the Red Woman I have heard so much about."

Lady Melisandre was still with the king, as well as a dozen men. She still insisted she meant no harm to the king. However, she had not offered to work her magics on him as Lyonel had expected. Perhaps she had known he would refuse. But she said that he would need no help from her. Once inside Storm's End, he would make a speedy recovery. The sight of the arrow wound... it was too close to fatal for Lyonel's comfort. He shook his head. He couldn't think about that.

"She serves no purpose here," he said instead. "You know full well why we are here. My father lies wounded, possibly dying, he needs to recover, and he can't do that in a tent."

"There are plenty of other holdfasts that you could have taken him to, Lord Lyonel," Ser Courtnay pointed out.

He clenched his hand. "Why should I take him to another?" He asked. "Father is Lord Renly's heir. With Renly dead, Storm's End is his. In his name I command that you open your gates to us."

"I have seen no body," Ser Courtnay said.

"He is dead ser," Lyonel replied. "These lords you see behind me, men of noble birth, they will all attest to that fact."

"You say men of noble birth. I say men of changing loyalties." He looked over all of Renly's former bannermen. "Men who change kings like I change boots."

"We are no disloyal men, Ser," Lord Bryce spoke up, anger in his voice. "Our holds are sworn to Storm's End, and Lord Stannis is the Lord of Storm's End as Renly's heir, and the King as Robert's heir." Other lords behind him echoed the sentiment.

"If that is so, why is the Knight of Flowers not among you? And where is Mathis Rowan? Randyll Tarly? Lady Oakheart? Why are they not here in your company, they who loved Renly best?"

"They are sworn to Highgarden, Ser Courtnay," Shireen spoke up. "Lords Fossoway, Varner, Cuy and others chose the King over their liege lords, but the names you say to us are not the bannermen of the Stormlands."

"Then where is Brienne of Tarth, I ask you?"

Ser Guyard laughed. "She who should never have been given a cloak fled back to Bitterbridge to protect Lord Renly's widow, as if we meant her harm. But she is only one. A dozen lords of higher station and skill came from the Reach to serve King Stannis."

"You speak of one errant bannerman, or bannerwoman." He shook his head. "She thought she could be a man, when the Seven themselves saw fit to make her a woman. Perhaps one treason looks for another, Ser Courtnay, but you will not find her here."

"Lyonel," Shireen whispered, reaching over and placing her hand on top of his own to placate him. "Don't."

But it seemed too late. "I am loyal, my lord," Ser Courtnay said. "More loyal than those around you."

"Loyalty to a traitor is not loyalty," he insisted. "It is just another treason. These men behind me have been forgiven that by my father. But still you stand defiant against it. Renly was my uncle, I loved him, and I mourn for the man he was, but your traitor king was struck down before my sister's very eyes."

"And where are these assailants?" Courtnay asked him. "It is a King's duty to carry out justice, where are those who murdered your own blood. It has been days, but you can't bring any of the before me. Not even their heads."

"We searched, Ser Courtnay," Shireen said. "But our duty was to protect King Stannis. We looked high and low for the assassins, but they could not be found."

"We have not given up, Ser Courtnay," said Ser Emmon. "Nor will surrendering Storm's End mean we will. You have my oath."

Contempt thickened Ser Cortnay's voice. "And what is that worth? You wear your cloak of many colours, I see. The one Renly gave you when you swore your oath to protect him. If he is dead, how is it you are not?" He turned his scorn on Guyard Morrigen. "I might ask the same of you, ser. Guyard the Green, yes? Of the Rainbow Guard? Sworn to give his own life for his king's? If I had such a cloak, I would be ashamed to wear it."

Morrigen bristled. "Be glad this is a parley, Penrose, or I would have your tongue for those words."

"Enough," Lyonel said. "Ser Courtnay, you may have disrespect for my father's bannermen. But I will not permit you to insult them such. They have found their loyalty. You have not. I would take each and every one of them over any of the men who rode back to Bitterbridge. Surrender the castle and you may find yourself amongst them, or home as you wish. Indeed, if you also wish to go and protect my uncle's widow, I will not stop you. Had you only said so earlier you could have accompanied Ser Parmen Crane and Alester Norcross." He had sent them to lay claim to the host at Highgarden, if they could. If not... that host could be Ser Loras' by now. "My terms are as my father sent to you. You will be pardoned for your treason, as he has pardoned these lords you see behind me. The men of your garrison will be free to enter his service or to return unmolested to their homes. You may keep your weapons and as much property as a man can carry. We will require your horses and pack animals, however."

"And what of Edric Storm?"

"He is the proof of Lannister incest, and must be surrendered to us," he said.

"Then my answer remains as before," Ser Courtnay replied.

"Ser Courtnay," Shireen said. "Be reasonable, he is our own cousin, do you think we would permit harm to come to him?"

"You do not speak for your father's intentions," he said. "And you are only half his family. Have the Florents not found themselves loyal to your father."

They hadn't, Lord Alester Florent rode with the knight of the Flowers. Some of his retainers, like the Norcross knights had chosen to ride with their king, but others hadn't.

His silence was enough of an answer for Ser Courtnay. "I have heard your proposal, Lord Lyonel, now here is mine." He pulled off his glove and flung it full at him, he reached up to catch the glove before it hit his face. "Single combat. Sword, lance, or any weapon you care to name. Or if you wish, name you a champion, and I shall do the same." He gave Guyard Morrigen and Bryce Caron a scathing look. "Either of these pups would do nicely, I should think."

Ser Guyard Morrigen grew dark with fury. "I will take up the gage, if it please you, my prince."

"As would I" Emmon Cuy said to him.

He cursed. He didn't want to command an assault, the garrison was strong. But now Ser Courtnay had issued him the challenge. He needed the castle, and this was likely the best way. It was the way most likely to win him the castle. Ser Courtnay may be beyond youth, but with his shoulder, combat wouldn"t be easy. But what choice did he have. To name a champion could be seen as weak. And these lords were tentative in their allegiance. His father may have a reputation, but he did not, except as an archer. But what was archer to knights. He had no choice. "Very well, Ser Courtnay," he said, holding up the glove. "I shall face you."

"Lyonel," Shireen took his arm fiercely and whispered in his ear. "You have a hundred knights as good as you or better behind you."

"Who am I if I hide behind another? Father can do that. I cannot," he whispered. There was also another fact. Ser Courtnay was one of the few who knew about his and Shireen's affliction. If he chose to hide behind another, he would know exactly why, and may well reveal it.

"What weapon do you name, lord Lyonel?"

It would be the mace or the Poleaxe. Ser Courtnay knew he used the mace. But it was his better weapon. Did he choose that or the poleaxe, in the hope that Courtnay wasn't proficient in their use? No. He couldn't risk that. Ser Courtnay was Master at Arms as well as Castellan. He likely knew enough of them. He had to use his best weapon. "Maces," he declared.

"As expected," Ser Courtnay replied bowing. "Very well. Grant me some time to arm myself, and we shall face each other on the drawbridge."

He nodded. "I accept," he said.

Ser Courtnay nodded and turned to enter the castle. "Let us back up a little," he said, turning his horse and his men retreating a little and dismounting.

Shireen rushed over. "Don't do this," she whispered to him, clutching at his breastplate. "Please, Lyonel, I'm begging you. Don't put yourself in harm's way now."

"I have to," he whispered back. "I'll be fine. I promise, I won"' be visiting your dreams tonight."

Hard sharp features looked ready to savage him. But she refrained herself, and simply nodded. "Very well," she said. "I know when there is no persuading you." She reached up and pulled a silk ribbon from her hair. "Hold out your arm," she said. He did so and she tied it securely to his arm. "Win today, Lyonel," she told him.

"I will," he promised.

He took up his mace and gave a few practice swings, various knights and lords encouraging him, and wishing him well. Bryen Farring, his squire, put his helm on and fastened it, along with his gorget and bevor plate. But Lyonel dropped the bevor plate a little, and raised his visor. In this situation the ability to breathe see better is more useful than the visor and bevor which could restrict breath and sight.

He approached the drawbridge just as Ser Courtnay appeared on the other side in his own grey plate. They approached each other, his sister's favour flapping in the sea breeze. He nodded and raised his mace, the flanged weapon pointing high. Ser Courtnay did the same.

Then, with a ferocity he hadn't expected, Ser Courtnay charged at him. He felt his breath hitch, he was quick. Ser Courtnay aimed a blow for his head and his own mace leapt to protect him. His let hand came up to force Courtnay's right aside and he struck back with his own, but the knight slipped out of the way. They danced across the drawbridge back and forth, grey plate catching the sun and weapons clanking off each other, the prince's quickness against the knight's savage strength. Ser Courtnay's mace seemed to be everywhere at once, raining down from one side then another. Once, the knight's weapon sang off his shoulder plate and he felt the pain shoot into his very bones.

But then his chance came, Ser Courtnay's mace was coming for the top of his head and he rose to meet it, his left arm knocking it aside and he rained three blows on the top of Courtnay's head, sending him staggering. He fell to his knees, reaching up to the top of his head clumsily. 'strong," he murmured. "Baratheons... always... so strong..." Then he collapsed to the wood of the drawbridge.

He knew, Lyonel thought. He came out here to die in service to his lord. 'someone help him up!" He called and took off his helm. "The castle is ours."

The portcullis didn't move to cut them off as a dozen men rode inside. He heard Shireen calling to get father and bring him to the castle. He helped some men raise Courtnay and carry him inside. He had to make sure that his body wasn't desecrated, but then, he would go and see to father.

Maester Varwyn was a greying man who was more than ready to serve the rightful Lord of Storm's End. He examined the arrow wound in Stannis' chest and tutted. "He should have seen a maester at once," he declared, preparing his various medicines.

"Will he be okay?" Shireen asked, clutching Lyonel's hand tightly.

Varwyn nodded. "I should think so," he said. "It may take some time for him to recover, but thankfully there doesn't seem to be an infection here." He dabbed at the wound with a cloth soaked in something or other. "I'd say, give him another week's bed rest, perhaps some more after that if we're to be sure. Then he'll be ready to lead his war. But what he needs now is rest. I will do all I can, but the body must sometimes heal alone." He fed a few drops of milk of the poppy to his father.

"Lyonel," his father muttered.

"Yes Father!" He raced over and took his hand, but he was asleep.

"He will sleep now," Varwyn said. "Please, my prince, he needs rest."

"Lyonel," Shireen said, taking his shoulder. "Come, there are loyal guards outside, nothing will harm father."

He nodded, and let his sister take him away. Together they went up to the top of the great tower. They overlooked the camp of their host, all the rolling hills and woods of the Stormlands and north towards Blackwater Bay and King's Landing.

"You fought well," Shireen said. "I'm proud of you."

He let a smile grace his features. "Thank you," he said.

"Will you ride alongside father?"

Shaking his head, he turned to her. "No," he said. "I will command the fleet. As soon as we are certain that father will recover, I will lead the fleet to Blackwater bay and begin attacking the Lannisters around King's Landing, weaken them for father's approach from the south."

"Is that wise," Shireen asked. "Taking the whole fleet?"

"I'll leave some behind," he said. "And don't worry. I have been sailing the seas since I could walk, father has been training me to be the next Master of Ships. No Lannister can match me on the waves. By the time father comes north, I will have weakened King's Landing significantly. Perhaps he could even just walk in and take it. Then he'll be king, the Tyrells and their other bannermen will fall in line and Lord Tywin will kneel or fall."

"The war could be over," Shireen said. "We could have peace."

"It will be," he said, drawing her into his arms. "It will be."


	47. Book 2 Robb II

Robb's army was strong, but without siege engines investing the Rock would serve no purpose but to waste time. So he had unleashed his men. The Greatjon had taken Null's Deep, Castamere and the silver mines and Pendric Hills; Maege Mormont and her riders were seizing all the livestock and grain and barley she could find and was storing it in Ashemark. He had taken the seat of House Marbrand first, a strong keep to serve as his Harrenhal in Tywin Lannister's land. When they returned they would bring these supplies with them. Lord Glover and Karstark were ravaging the coast, he had told them to light fires in the Lannister villages that would keep the residence of Casterly Rock awake through the night. While they were ravaging the Westerlands countryside, Robb himself would set about the task of taking the castles of Lord Tywin's bannermen. A man like Tywin Lannister, who ruled by fear, had to come and protect the lands of his bannermen or they could revolt against him inside his own army.

It felt good. He had sat silent at Riverrun for two months, hearing about Tywin Lannister burning his new lands, goading him to battle. Now it was his turn, and he would waste no time. His remaining host, three and a half thousand riders, were now riding south, towards Sarsfield. It sat between Casterly Rock and the Golden Tooth. A small force there would be able to watch over both, and send a raven to his foothold at Ashemark to tell him when Lord Tywin had crossed the tooth, letting him regather his men. He wouldn't risk his horse in a battle with Tywin Lannister. Brynden's scouts had discovered a number of locations where he could mount a defence and make Tywin Lannister pay a heavy price for attacking him. But he would also lose men. Instead, he would harry Tywin every step of the way, bleeding him from a thousand wounds before retreating back across the goat track to the Trident. He didn't need to utterly destroy Tywin Lannister, tempting as that was. He would let the Baratheons fall upon Lord Tywin's children and grandchildren, rob him of all six in a single stroke.

The ride to Sarsfield had been uninterrupted. A small town called Merchant's Rest offered his host all their treasure in return for not being sacked. Black Walder Frey had wanted to sack it anyway, but Robb forbade him. "They are giving us all they have of value," he reminded his soon to be relative, he didn't even know by what degree they would be related. He was Ser Stevron's grandson, he thought, yet still would be older than Robb's queen, who would be Black Walder's grandsire's sister. "There is no need to waste effort in burning the town as well."

He sent some men to deliver the gold back to Ashemark, not wanting to be laden down with treasure longer than he had to be.

Sarsfield still flew the lion of Lannister and the green arrow of House Sarsfield from it's towers. As his host set to camp that night, he ordered that a messenger be sent to the castle, telling them to surrender and they would all be spared, if not then he would take the castle by storm. As he suspected, they held firm and refused. So that night, he gathered his men to him. "Ser Walder," he said. "You will hold your men here in your camp and, at the crack of dawn, you will scale the north-western tower."

"Gladly," Black Walder replied, his temper which earned him his name seemingly held down for now.

"What of us, Your Grace?" The Smalljon asked him.

"When the sun sets," Robb said to him and the others, "we will ride silently around the castle to the southern side. Grey Wind will remain here and howl in the night, that should reassure them that we are here. When dawn comes they will look to their northern wall, and we will sweep in from the south and scale those walls."

They all nodded. "Your Grace," the Smalljon bowed. "Allow me the honour of leading our van."

Robb nodded, he had asked first, and the Karstarks had led the van at Oxcross. His father had told him to rotate the positions of honour amongst his bannermen, that none felt left out. He would do so. "Very well then," he said. "You will lead us against the south as Ser Walder leads his men on the north. Tomorrow evening we feast in Sarsfield."

When the sun had set, Robb sent Grey Wind off hunting for now, he would howl when he returned. He had learned to trust Grey Wind knew his command as well as any man. Meanwhile he led his men around to the west, the wind was blowing from east to west, so any noise they or their horses made would get carried out towards the Sunset Sea, not towards the garrison. They also camped far enough south that they would likely not get noticed by an overcautious guard in the castle. He set his men to get as much rest as they could, with several men ready to wake them just before dawn so they could strike before the enemy was even aware.

He was shaken awake by Olyvar himself, who strapped his armour to him and passed him his sword. He rushed to his horse. His men in the south had left their tents to the north so the garrison would think to see them all there, so they all mounted their horses and retreated out of sight of the castle. They were ready to strike against the castle as soon as they heard the trumpets of Black Walder's assault.

Smalljon Umber and his men advanced with the ladders on foot and quiet, hiding in the shadow of the wall. Unless a member of the garrison was to look over the edge of the castle and directly down, they would be hidden, and Black Walder sounding his trumpets made sure that didn"t happen.

When he heard the trumpets, Robb sent some scouts forward to check to see if the Smalljon had set up the ladders yet. When he announced that he had he, led his men in a fast gallop to the castle. No warhorns were sounded. He hoped the garrison would only notice them when they were over the walls.

When he reached the ladders, the last of the Smalljon's men were clambering over the edge, and the sounds of battle with the garrison reached them. He led his own men up the ladder, eager to join in the battle. But there was no need. By the time he had gotten over the top, the Smalljon's men were spreading to the towers and out along the walls, and he could see the tower of Frey was fluttering over the north western tower. The few men of the garrison who had retrieved their weapons were dead or laying down their arms, and the castle staff seemed totally confused by what was happening. There hadn"t been any need for such a plan after all. But it had delivered him a castle, so he couldn"t complain too much.

'ser Brynden, assign your fifty best men to watch over the castle, and your best commander. They are to watch the River Road, and alert us immediately when Tywin Lannister crosses the Golden Tooth."

"Lord Sarsfield's wife and children?" Ser Brynden asked.

"Lock them in their rooms, but don't mistreat them."

Brynden nodded. "I'll see it done." They had expelled most of the garrison and imprisoned the rest. So there shouldn't be too much trouble. "But for this task I would rather leave a hundred men. And Ser Jon Vance may be my best scout here, but Ser Jason Rivers knows his letters, and I wouldn't trust the maester implicitly. Put Jason in command and he'll tell you right when Lord Tywin marches."

His granduncle knew the matter best, so Robb let him have his way, and Jason Rivers and a hundred men were set to watch the Castle and the River Road.

They didn't need to rest, but his men were happily taking the items of value from the castle, from the silver in the vaults to the inlaid cutlery. Anything that wouldn't bog them down too much was theirs for the taking.

He himself went to pray in the godswood, to ask the Old Gods to watch over his mother and siblings and keep them safe. When he emerged, there was a man calling his name. "Your Grace, King Robb!"

"Here," Robb replied approaching. "What is it?"

The man bowed before him and held out a raven scroll. "This arrived at Ashemark four days past, Your Grace."

Robb nodded, thanked the man and slit open the Tully seal. It was from his mother.

 _Robb,_

 _I hope this raven finds you well and victorious. I pray every day for this war to end that you might go home safely, but I know things must go well for you soon enough._

 _I have some news that I hope warms your heart. Lord Tywin Lannister has vacated Harrenhal. In the aftermath, Lord Bolton swept south and occupied the ancient ruin. Tristan joined him shortly afterwards, suitably angry at missing another chance at conflict. Robb, I worry for him sometimes, without you here with him, I fear he had decided on a rash course of action._

Robb couldn't help but smile at the thought of Tristan arriving at Harrenhal just after it was taken. He knew his brother wanted to fight. He would deny him no longer. When they next met, they would ride side by side, he vowed it. He returned to the letter.

 _But Robb, there is good news to be had. In Harrenhal Tristan found your sister, Arya._

He had to read that line again. Arya? Found? He returned to the letter.

 _She had apparently been hiding under Tywin Lannister's nose as a kitchen hand, having escaped the capital with a man of the Night's Watch_. Robb made a mental note to provide two hundred men to the Night's Watch as thanks. That was just like Arya, ever resourceful, ever looking like a boy and being mistaken for a serving lad. If he or his mother had been told before father went south that Arya being so mistakable would one day save her life he would have laughed. _She is coming to me now, and I don't intend to let her out of my sight._

That made sense, with the Greyjoy invasion of the North, another matter he would have to deal with upon his return, if Ser Rodrik couldn't deal with it himself. Perhaps he could write to Tristan at Harrenhal to go north himself and deal with the invasion. Though that would part them for longer, it would satisfy his brother's eagerness for battle.

 _But your twin, Robb. It seems his eagerness for battle cannot be restrained. He has left his host under the command of Roose Bolton and is riding for the Neck now. He means to use the Crannogmen to enter the north and battle the Ironmen in your stead. He promises swift victory._

He shook his head. Of one mind, he and his twin. He wished his brother well and would pray for him at every godswood he found.

 _But I must report that his negotiation has failed, and events in the south have moved faster than anticipated. Renly Baratheon lies dead. He led a mounted force of some twenty thousand men to confront his brother Stannis, who lay siege to Storm's End. Something happened people seem unsure what, but Renly is dead and Stannis, despite being injured is now the head of a host of twenty thousand men, mostly knights and riders._

 _Robb, I feel concerned. Perhaps it is the result of this war, my father and my sons are in danger, and Sansa too. Please be careful Robb. I am your mother, and I need you to be strong for me._

 _Be safe Robb._

 _Your Mother_

 _Catelyn_

He set the letter down. Things were moving faster than he anticipated. If Stannis was at Storm's End with a host of mounted men, then he was no doubt ready to fall upon the capital, or would be if he had been injured and needed to recover. His plan was working. He had intended it to be Renly that swept down on King's Landing, but Stannis would serve just the same.

"Your Grace," he turned to his granduncle. "Where do we go from here?"

"North," he said. "Back to Ashemark, I don't want to spread us too thinly."

"A wise decision," Brynden agreed. He only had six thousand men, he didn't want to spread them across the entire Westerlands. Besides, there were plenty of other targets in the northern Westerlands. He had to keep up his pressure so that Lord Tywin kept coming west, leaving King's Landing available for Lord Stannis to take without him.

The war could end in the next few months if he remained diligent and continued as he had been. _This is for you, father_ , he thought. _All of it. I will not disappoint you. I will make you proud._


	48. Book 2 Loren V

Robb Stark was marching on the Crag. That was what the raven scroll had said. He didn't know what the Westerling Castellan thought he could do about it from King's Landing. Indeed, Robb had likely taken the hold by now, given the time it would have taken for the raven to arrive. He put the scroll to one side. He knew he should be wishing that his father free the Crag and the other holdfasts taken by Robb Stark. But if his father did that, then there was likely no hope for defending the city. Those holdfasts would be recaptured in time, but for now, he had to worry about the capital.

A knock at the door made him look up. Ser Gerold entered. "Ah," Loren said, sitting back in his chair. "You have news?"

Gerold nodded. "I do, my lord, good and bad."

He suspected the good would be flavoured with bad, it always was these days, if there was any good at all. "Start with the good," he said.

"Ser Sumner Jast has returned from Duskendale, my lord. He brings a levy of two hundred men and fourteen ships." He pressed his lips together. It was less than he would have wanted to come from Duskendale, they could certainly provide more, but every ship and soldier they could get their hands on would be important here.

"How many warships?" He asked.

"Two," Gerold replied. "And Ser Sumner tells me that he thinks the one he was on had a leaky hull, and he would hesitate to call the other battle worthy."

He wasn't truly surprised. Ever since the Rebellion the bulk of the Crownlands' navy had been stationed at Dragonstone and it's nearby islands. With such a strong protection force and a diligent Master of Ships there, the other houses had let their own ships diminish, dismissing them as costly encumbrances that weren't needed. If Stannis had been planning to rebel against Joffrey for a long time, perhaps he had helped orchestrate this, to give him total naval superiority on this coast of Westeros. The North hadn't had a fleet since long before the Targaryens had even arrived, although Varys was telling him that they were supposedly rebuilding their strength at sea now they were claiming independence. And the Vale fleet wasn't large, even if they were participating in this war, it wouldn't be enough to threaten Stannis Baratheon's navy. Only two fleets could do that, the Greyjoys, currently attacking the North, and the Redwyne's currently neutral fleet at the Arbor. Soon that fleet may be theirs, if Tyrion played his part, but it wouldn't be here in enough time to participate in the battle.

He sighed. "What else?"

"Ser Jacelyn reports that the Gold Cloaks are getting better, but he suspects that most of them will break if confronted with actual battle."

That didn't surprise him either. It was welcome that they were improving, but if it got to the situation that he was relying on the thousands of untrained Gold Cloaks, the battle was likely lost anyway. Thankfully, the men he had provided to Tyrion were of lesser quality, so he still had the best with him.

"But there is one bit of very good news," Ser Gerold said, holding out a letter, piquing his interest.

"What?" He asked.

"The smiths report that they are successful. The chain has been completed and is being taken to the towers as we speak."

He banged the table in triumph. "Yes!" He yelled. "Now we have a chance." He let out a laugh months in the making. "By the gods, Gerold, you could have said that sooner."

"I know," Gerold replied smiling.

Loren shook his head and poured two cups of wine. "Have a drink, Gerold," he said. The knight gladly took up one of the cups. He let himself celebrate for a while. The boom chain removed the immediate danger. Now Stannis would have to either raft the Rush against his fleet or take the longer route across the bay. But he only needed to buy as much time as possible, then his father could arrive, and hopefully the Tyrells with them. But there was still much to do, and the worse part of Gerold's news to come. "So," he said. "What was the bad news?"

Gerold nodded and put down the cup. "Your sister waits outside, my lord. I believe she has discovered what you"ve done with the young Prince."

"Ah," he said. He had been waiting for this. Tyrion had left with Tommen four days ago, she really should have noticed before this. "Well, no use keeping her waiting for so much longer. How many men are outside?"

"Four," Gerold said.

He nodded. "Send them in, then go and lead my sister in, please."

He bowed his head. "Of course," he said, turning and marching out the door. Four Lannister guardsmen entered and stood to attention.

"Take a place at each corner of this room," he told them and they obeyed. Then he laced his fingers on top of his desk and waited for Cersei to enter.

He didn't have to wait long, Gerold led her into the room, flanked by two Kingsguard knights, and she looked fiercer than most storms, eye alight like wildfire and barely restrained anger marring every contour. "Shouldn't you be with the King?" He asked the Kingsguard at her shoulders. Boros Blount looked sheepish, but Meryn looked blank and bleak.

"Do not try to change the subject!" Cersei snarled at him like a caged lion. He wasn't impressed. "You... you took Tommen away from me. You sent him with the monster!"

"You mean Tyrion. Yes, I did."

"Tommen is _my_ son. Mine! Not yours. You have no right to take him away."

"Tommen is Joffrey's heir," he calmly reminded Cersei. "If he is kept in this city when it falls, he will die. I had to get him away to ensure there was at least one of Robert Baratheon's heirs that we can fight for."

"I planned to send Tommen to Rosby," Cersei said. "Lord Gyles would protect him."

Loren scoffed. "Lord Gyles would hand him over to Stannis Baratheon the second the city fell to him. Thanks to the bungling of your regency and Joffrey's tyrannical tendencies, no one will fight for a Lannister-backed claimant when we have lost the throne."

Cersei's gaze darkened. "Joff is-"

"A tyrant," Loren finished at once. "Don't even pretend otherwise. I would very much like to know where it came from."

"He always tried to mimic Robert."

"Say what you like about Robert Baratheon, no man justly called him a tyrant." This was Cersei's inadequate teaching on lordship. They both knew it, they could both see it. But perhaps only he could see that they both saw it.

"Rosby is loyal," Cersei declared, trying to deflect the conversation away from her failings.

"Rosby provided three ships, one of which sank before it got to the harbour, and not two hundred men to help defend the city." He got to his feet. "What is done is done, and it was the right thing to do," he told her. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go and see to the defences of the city." He marched past her. He half expected the Kingsguard to try and stop him, at which point Gerold and his guardsmen would kill them. But they didn't, they let him pass, and he made for the stables, he had to see the river, the battle may well be decided there.

()()()

He gazed along the riverfront. Hammers rang in the morning air as carpenters swarmed over the Mud Gate, extending wooden hoardings from the battlements. Those were coming well. He was a deal less pleased by the clutter of ramshackle structures that had been allowed to grow up behind the quays, attaching themselves to the city walls like barnacles on the hull of a ship; bait shacks and pot-shops, warehouses, merchants" stalls, alehouses, the cribs where the cheaper sort of whores spread their legs. It has to go, every bit of it. As it was, Stannis would hardly need scaling ladders to storm the walls.

"Ser Gerold," he called. "Prepare a hundred men to scour this lot from the quayside. Tell the people who live here they have one day to gather all of their possessions before the buildings come down."

"They won't like that," Gerold commented.

Lored nodded. "That's true." They had to be removed, but there was no reason that he had to blamed for it. Cersei didn't seem to care what anyone without a house thought of her. Or half of those who bore the name of a house for that matter. "Tell them that Queen Regent Cersei has demanded it, then give them their day."

Gerold chuckled and nodded. They rode along the shore. The ships of his fleet were setting off for the day. They were to practice rowing as fast as possible, for as long as possible, and quickly changing direction to row the other way. He had spread them out along the Rush. This would be vital to his battle plan, and he needed the crews in tip top shape. Carpenters and shipwrights not involved with the construction of hoardings on the walls were busy trying to make as many ships as possible seaworthy again. Perhaps it was a vain hope that they would be able to assist in some small capacity, but even if they could, Loren knew that Stannis' warships would trample over them like a knight on a beetle.

"What about the quays?" Gerold asked as they pulled up in line with the wooden structures jutting out into the Rush like long wooden fingers. "They will allow Stannis Baratheon to land his men quickly."

"But they also allow faster resupply of our own ships," Loren said. 'the boom chain should keep out Stannis Baratheon's navy. We need the quays for our own use." He looked at them in thought. "If the chain is breached we will sink merchantmen in them, deny them to the enemy," he said. 'that will ruin the quays if Stannis' fleet enters the Blackwater."

When they approached the end of the quays, Loren looked out over the two crude stone towers that would hold the boom chain. Right now they were trying to fit one end into the northern tower before a warship would carry the other end across to the other tower. The one on the northern bank was situated on a bluff with the Red Keep looking over it. The rocky terrain surrounding it made it impossible for ships to approach, and the proximity to the walls allowed it some level of protection. The one on the south bank he had paid more attention to, given that this was where Stannis Baratheon's host would be arriving. The tower had its footing in the water, a cut having been dug in the bank. It created a small moat to help protect the castle. A concerted assault would take it, but he aimed to make it too inconvenient to do so. It would likely have to be replaced if the chain was to be kept in the long term. The foundations would be too soft and eventually it would collapse, but that could be handled in the short term. "How many men are assigned to the towers?" He asked Gerold.

"Twenty in the northern tower, twice that number in the south," his knight replied.

Better safe than mournful. "Double the number in each," he told him. "And give them extra banners as well, we need those towers to last, if they fall, so does the chain, and so does the city."

"I will see it done," Gerold assured him.

"Good, for now, let us return. I believe the Spider had words for me today."

Varys was waiting for him in his solar when he returned. "My lord," he bowed, simpering.

"You have news for me?"

"I do," he said. "First, we have news from the North. Theon Greyjoy has taken Winterfell."

He froze. "Winterfell? You're certain?"

"I am, my lord," Varys assured him. "He now calls himself the Prince of Winterfell. I hear he took the castle with as few as fifty men."

Loren sat down and allowed a smile to grace his features. Last week Harrenhal had been taken by the Starks, now Winterfell had been taken from them. Robb Stark would have to answer, somehow. It was unlikely he would return to the North himself so quickly. But he would at least be given reason to pause from his campaign in the West, granting his home some reprieve. 'that might seem to secure my northern flank."

"Perhaps permanently," Varys said. "I picked up this raven scroll on the way here."

"And opened it," Loren said. How else would he know that the contents were for permanence?

"Not so, my lord, do you truly trust me so little?" Varys asked with a giggle.

'truly," Loren said.

"Well, I only say perhaps permanently by the seal," Varys replied.

He looked at the seal. A Greyjoy Kraken. He didn't rise to the Spider's bait, instead he simply slit the seal and unfurled it. He read the contents and laughed. "Lord Balon invites King Joffrey to send an emissary to the isles to arrange an alliance and discuss the setting of new borders." He looked down at the end of the message. "He styles himself as King of the Isles and the North." He laughed and threw it down. "What madness that he thinks any will accept. Perhaps we could have offered terms if he had held back his ships. But by attacking first he has done more for us than he ever could by seizing half the continent from us with our blessing." He shook his head at Lord Balon's stupidity. How Lord Quellon had produced such a son, he never knew. "Is there anything else?"

"Indeed, my lord, news less joyous for us, I fear. My birds in Storm's End report that King Stannis is nearing a full recovery. He will likely be marching within the week." That was most unwelcome. "His son does not have his patience, with most of the Fleet he has sailed for the Rush."

Loren nodded. He couldn't think to take the city without the army, but he could seal the Gullet again, and then raid the coast, sending more refugees into his arms, and more mouths with them. But there was nothing to be done about it until the battle. He would be damned before he sent his fleet to protect every town and village under his stewardship during Joffrey incompetency. "So it will soon begin," he muttered.

"And I have one more matter to discuss of that nature," Varys said. He held out a list of names.

"What's this?" He asked.

"A list of dissidents," Varys replied. 'they call themselves the Antler Men, after the Baratheon sigil."

"I know some of these names. These are rich men. Traders, merchants, craftsmen. Why should they conspire against us?" Aside from the way Joffrey and Cersei were treating anyone that is.

"It seems they believe that Lord Stannis must win, and wish to share his victory."

If Tyrion were here he would make a jest about changed sigils. It was true that Stannis had adopted a new sigil, it seemed. But so had Joffrey. He had hoped to do something about it, but Cersei would have his guts, and he needed her on his side. The people would be more inspired if they were fighting under the banner of good King Robert, this new one was a stranger to them. It was no matter for jests, though; it appeared that these Antler Men had armed several hundred followers, to seize the King's Gate once battle was joined, and admit the enemy to the city.

He sighed. That wouldn't do. It was time to rile up a little more hatred against the Lannisters. He reached for his quill and scrawled out the orders to arrest all of the named men, and hoped that was most of the treason.


	49. Book 2 Daenerys III

As far as she remembered, Renly Baratheon was the uncle to the man who had taken her from Pentos. She vaguely remembered a man in his twenties, with jet black hair and blue eyes, like the one who saved her, but more handsome, always smiling and laughing, generous to others, although he was often out of her way, by either design or chance, she didn't know. No more than she knew him, but he must have been quite a man, for the people of the city mourned for him, despite him being a traitor.

"Joffrey will be pleased," Sansa told her one day. "The first time I met him, Renly laughed at Joffrey." Joffrey didn't like being laughed at, but he was no doubt angry that he couldn't do the deed himself.

He was a man who didn't fear then, no one laughed at Joffrey now. Not unless they wanted their heads cut off, or worse. "Neither knight or knave feared to laugh under King Robert," one of their serving maids had told them when they brought the food, "now to laugh can mean death or torture unless his grace wishes it."

But they were safe in their tower. Lord Loren's guards were loyal to him and there were always four on the door and more stationed throughout the tower, and they protected a precious haven from the king, fools danced on tables for their pleasures, ladies, be they servant or noblewoman enjoying the Hand's protection or hospitality, gossiped and giggled, worried for their sons or husbands or the state of their lands in the war.

Despite this being the Tower of the Hand, the Hand seemed rarely present, awake before the others and back in bed after them, once a week he was able to take dinner with one guest or other, the two of them had yet to experience that, there were far more important guests for the Hand to flatter and soothe than them.

There was a knock on the door to their shared chambers then. "Lady Sansa, lady Daenerys, are you presentable?"

"We are," Sansa replied.

The door opened and a red cloaked guard entered. "Lady Sansa, my lord requires your presence, please come with me, lady Daenerys, you are to remain here."

Sansa looked at her confused, unaware of why Loren needed to see Sansa, but there was nothing to be done. She nodded that she would be okay, they had had to come to understand such gestures in Joffrey's court where words were weapons to beat you with, and Sansa left with the guard, the door clicking shut behind her.

She sighed and sat back down on the bed. She had hoped that there would be those that remembered her family when she arrived at King's Landing, but if they did they only remembered the Mad King, not the generations of greatness that had come before her father. Well, that wasn't entirely true, a few did, Ser Aron was one, and she had seen the eyes of others who looked at her, looking with pity and respect rather than contempt and scorn. But they were a minority, and only Ser Aron had approached her to speak, but she hadn't seen him since he took her down to the cellars to see the skulls of the dragons of old.

As she was contemplating this, there was a soft knock at the door. "Who is it?" She asked.

"Septon Morigold, my lady," came a deep voice thrumming with heavy undertones. "May I enter?"

Dany opened the door cautiously, not knowing of any Septon Morigold. She knew that Lord Loren had a Septa in his service, but not this man. Still, if he'd gotten past the guards, he must be a known figure. When the wooden door was pulled back, she saw a thick man with a completely shaved head, a large paunch stretching his folds of white and silver cloth. Around his neck was a length of leather with a gleaming crystal set into a gold base swinging from the end. "My lady," he bowed low and respectfully.

"Y-yes?"

He smiled at her warmly. "Long have I wished to talk with you, and now I have my chance." Dany didn't like his tone at once, she'd heard it on those who leered at her and those who saw her as a prize. "May I please enter?"

"What do you want?" She asked, sternly, not budging, though with his weight he could almost certainly force his way past her if he chose to.

"Only to talk, my lady, but I fear my legs are not sufficient to support this" he slapped his belly, "for too long, please, may I enter?"

Cautiously she stepped aside and allowed the septon to waddle past her. Without invitation he took the wooden chair at the vanity as his and set himself down upon it. He sighed with relief and stretched out his legs. "I thank you, my lady," he said, happy to be off his feet.

"You wanted to talk to me, what about?"

Septon Morigold leant forwards, peering at her with a keen eye that made her even more wary. "Many things, lady Daenerys, the future is that which interests me, yours most of all."

"My future?" Were the guards outside her door? Could she call them in time? She should never trust people who spoke of the future, her brother had, always and constantly, a future with him on the Iron Throne and everything right with the world. Now he was dead in a harbour and she was a prisoner here in the Red Keep. "What about it? My future is here until the King says otherwise. I know that."

"And so it is," the septon replied, nodding his agreement. "But that may not be the case forever."

She stepped back, glancing around for something, anything that could be used as a weapon. "Who are you?" She whispered.

He continued as though she hadn't said a thing. "There is soon to be a battle at the capital, you know this, as well as I, and there are many who remember a day before good King Robert ended the Targaryen dynasty, before the lions of Casterly Rock brought the city low with steel and fire. Many who would help you, and you are not the only dragon left in the world."

The backs of her legs collided with a vanity, knocking over something on it. "The day of the battle may be the day of your salvation. Keep a good head about you, tell no-one of this, and others will find it in their hearts to help you. Some already have. Remember this, we shall speak again." He got to his feet with a vigour that shocked her considering his size and his walk from earlier. "Seven blessings upon you, lady Daenerys." He waddled over to the door and without waiting for her approval, left her alone.

She was frozen for some time, so when a guard poked his head through the door, she was still pressed up against the vanity. "My lady? Is something wrong your door was open."

She coughed and shook her head. "No, I'm fine thank you, my apologies."

He nodded. "It's no concern, shall I shut the door for you?"

"Yes, thank you – wait!" She asked suddenly and the guard paused, his hand stretching out for the brass door handle. "Who was that man who I saw earlier?"

"Man?"

She nodded. "Yes, fat man, dressed in silk, had a sort of crystal on his necklace." Using the name might be a bad idea, she didn't know enough yet, and if he did mean to help...

"Crystal necklace and fat... sounds like a septon to me, I'm afraid I don't know any septons around here, I'm from Lannisport."

"I see," she replied. "Thank you ser."

He nodded and closed the door with a click.

She sat back down on the bed, wondering what to make of the visit by the strange Septon. He seemed to want to help her, but did he? She'd known many people who were eager to "help" her and her brother, but in truth they just wanted the last Targaryens in their custody for reasons of pride or future opportunity, but had cast them aside when they realised that her brother's dreams were impossible or that they would receive no return on their investment. She could offer no more than he could, and surely a Septon would barely be able to take her anywhere safe. She had seen one or two septs in Essos and they were barely shrines, built for the visiting sailors from the Seven Kingdoms.

But it was the comment about the dragons that got to her. What did he mean by that? Not every dragon was dead? He had to mean Targaryen by dragon, surely, her brother had called himself a dragon plenty of times and she'd heard Lannisters call themselves lions. But the Targaryens were all dead bar her. Her family had been the last branch, with Her brothers dead, and Rhaegar's children as well, there was nothing and no one left, only her. Was he a spy perhaps? trying to get her trust so that she would try and escape only to fall into the arms of her laughing captors who considered it sport. The Hand of the King and his dwarf brother seemed kind enough that they wouldn't indulge in such a thing, but Joffrey...

That was probably it. Just Joffrey being Joffrey.

She wouldn't fall prey to this trap, she told herself, but a small flicker of hope remained inside her that perhaps this was something. Either way she would not do anything, not yet, except that which she had been doing since she had been brought to King's Landing.

Watching, waiting and trying to survive.

* * *

 **A/N: A short one I know, but I'm fine tuning the next chapter as we speak and it should be up within the next couple of hours.**

 **Also, just to clarify Lyonel and Shireen - not twins**

 _ **Naruto9tail - thanks for the advice, I'll check it out**_


	50. Book 2 Tristan IV

"The Ironmen suffered losses in taking the castle. King Robb's garrison fought most bravely," Gawen Manderly told him as they looked over Moat Cailin from the northern side. "However there are thousands inside still."

"What of those who were working on it's construction?" Tristan asked.

Gawen pointed to one of the towers still rising from the earth. "We believe that they are being forced to continue their work for the Ironmen," he said.

That was good, Robb wouldn't need to get new workers to replace them when they had ousted the Ironmen. He knew Daryn was waiting with the men of House Hornwood along the Causeway, ready to attack from the south when the men from the north were storming the walls as well. Domeric had ridden off to the west, to rally the men of Dustin and Ryswell, to whom he was related on his mother's side. He would lead the raids on the Iron Fleet and draw most of the garrison out from behind the walls and leave it relatively undefended. He had hoped the Crannogmen would be willing to help in the assault, but with the rebuilding it was too difficult for them to do so, and emerging to fight in the open was not how they fought. He respected that, and Lord Howland Reed promised to bleed white any hostile army that marched up the Neck.

His host gathered in the North was made up most of men from House Manderly and Lord Wyman's bannerman. One and a half thousand men, mostly footmen, were ready, along with soldiers from the Hornwood, sent by Lord Wyman's cousin, Daryn's mother. It wasn't the largest force he could assemble, but it would serve. They could hide this number easily so the Greyjoys didn't spot them and they could take Moat Cailin easily. Then they could roll up the western coast of the North, clearing the Ironmen from his homeland.

Still, Tristan wondered how his brother had pulled off so many ambushes. It was dead dull waiting for your enemy to act. But that was what he had to do, sit, wait, and watch day in and day out as he waited for the Dustins and Ryswells to raid the Iron Fleet and lure the garrison from the castle. Shield shared his impatience, constantly trying to rush off north, towards Winterfell. He would see Bran and Rickon again, he was positive, but they could wait a little longer, they had to. Just a little while more.

The next day a messenger came racing down the Kingsroad to meet them. "Ser Gawen!" He called out, racing through the camp.

"What is it?" Gawen asked, looking up from the table where the two of them were breaking their fast.

"It... I..." he saw Tristan and bowed. "My Prince! Forgive me, we weren't aware that you had returned."

"I haven't been here long," he replied. He recognised the man, he was one of Winterfell's garrison, the men Robb had left behind. What was he doing here? 'speak up man. Why are you here?"

He got to his feet. "My Prince, I bring word from Ser Rodrik, the Ironmen assaulted Torrhen's Square. He led Winterfell's garrison and repelled them."

"That's good," Tristan said, slightly angered that he had missed yet another chance of battle. But why did he ride so fast? If he had a victory to report, what could be so vital so as to nearly kill the horse. "Why did you come racing so fast?"

"Because... my Prince... Ser Rodrik... I am sorry, my Prince, but it was not the main Ironmen assault. It was but a diversion. When Ser Rodrik rode to liberate Torrhen's Square, Theon Greyjoy slipped behind him and has taken Winterfell."

... What... how... what... but... no.

The messenger was still speaking. ".. men from House Tallhart have gathered, and Lord Cerwyn has also mobilised men to join Ser Rodrik. They are marching now and mean to retake the castle from Theon Turncloak and hold him for King Robb's justice."

"No," he said, black rage boiling within him. His father had treated Theon as a son... a guest in his home, and this was how he repaid him. "It will be _my_ justice. I will kill him myself." He slammed a fist on the table and felt a jarring pain shoot through his arm. 'ser Gawen, this battle is yours, I will be riding north."

Gawen did not object. "I will take this castle for you, my Prince," Gawen said. "Go... reclaim your home and put the Ironmen to the sword."

"Oh I intend to," Tristan said and raced to find his horse. "They will burn for this. They will all of them burn!"

()()()

He was glad that Gawen had provided him and the twenty men riding with him additional horses, if he had only had the one, he likely would have killed it. Gawen had also offered some Manderly knights to join him, but on that Tristan turned him down. Winterfell was the home of these men, they lived there, laughed there and loved there, they understood his haste to see it retaken. A man of White Harbour might urge caution and restraint, and he would have ignored them at best. At worst...

They arrived outside Winterfell in the evening of a crisp autumn day. He saw Cerwyn battleaxes, Tallhart trees, Karstark suns, and the moose of Hornwood. Coming up from the White Knife were more Manderly men along with the Flints, bringing knights, warhorses and siege engines. The camp was wide and spread around the castle, although he doubted the men in the camp numbered more than two thousand, if that. Outside the main gate of Winterfell was the large Stark Banner that told him Ser Rodrik was waiting there. He put his spurs to his horse and galloped for it.

He didn't pause, some men barely had time to dive out of the way of his horse or Shield as he rode hard for the banner. He passed men in northern livery, catapults and scorpions, and horse lines. He pulled his horse to a stop near it and, before it had truly stopped, he slid off the saddle and rushed for the tent just next to the large Stark banner.

He tore open the tent and the three men around the table turned to him. "Prince Tristan?!" Rodrik asked in alarm. His whiskers blowing tentatively in the wind. "What... how?"

"I heard the North was under threat," he replied simply. "I came to drive the Ironmen away and found them in my home."

A man he recognised as a Tallhart, with pale blue eyes, dropped to one knee. "My Prince," he said. "We are honoured to have you here."

He nodded. "And you have my thanks... I'm sorry, your name escapes me."

"My name is Leobald," he replied, not seemingly slighted in the least. "Leobald Tallhart. My brother is Helman, Master of Torrhen's Square."

"Well, Leobald, thank you for coming to assist my house."

"We are loyal to House Stark, always," he replied earnestly.

He nodded and looked to the third one. A young man in Cerwyn arms, with armour clasped around his body. Then his jaw dropped. "Cley?"

His friend nodded. "Indeed," he said, "it's good to see you Tristan." Tristan hugged his friend tightly.

"And you," he said. "I am sorry about your father." Lord Medger had been captured when he was defeated by Tywin Lannister. He had died of his wounds in Harrenhal. Lord Bolton had his bones put into a heavy chest and they were currently with Daryn.

Cley nodded, looking saddened. "He fought for the North," he replied. "As will I. When Ser Rodrik asked for help, I answered."

"Lord Cley fought valiantly, he killed four Ironmen at Torrhen's Square," Rodrik said.

"I would surrender all of those kills to have been here when the Turncloak attacked," Cley said. "If I had been, I could have stopped him."

"You're here now," Tristan said. "We'll take Winterfell back, and punish Theon for stealing it."

"And for your brothers," Leobald Tallhart added.

Tristan nodded. "Yes, he no doubt caused them a lot of distress." He shook his head. They were not supposed to be in harm's way, not in Winterfell.

The other three were looking at each other nervously. "My Prince... perhaps you will want to put down your sword," Rodrik said.

"Why?" He asked.

"You should," Cley confirmed, tentatively holding out his hand.

He looked at them suspiciously. Rodrik always told him to put down his sword when he got angry. Why would he get angrier than he was? His horse had taken the brunt of it on the ride up here. "What's going on?"

Ser Rodrik looked at the ground in shame. Leobald Tallhart bowed his head in respect. Cley took a breath. "Tristan. Theon... he... Bran and Rickon tried to escape and he... he... I'm sorry. But he had them executed."

No... Bran... Rickon... they were children. They... no...

"That's... that's not... no... he... how could... no..." he said. He clutched the edge of the table as images of Bran's broken body flashed before him, Rickon curled around on the floor, blood trickling from his lips, his eyes open and glassy. His breath came fast, rattling through his throat. Shield howled a low, mournful howl outside the tent.

He vaguely heard Rodrik lament that he should have left more men behind. Cley repeating that he should have been there, but it meant nothing. Bran and Rickon were dead. The table blurred as breathing became harder and harder. He had promised mother... in his letter... that he would not let any harm come to them. He had sworn so...

"Tristan," a voice echoed from far away. A weight fell on his shoulder but he lashed out, throwing it off as shadow crept into his vision.

"I...I... I..." He caught himself on the table as he fell, but the wood was smooth, there was nothing to grip, and he slid to the floor like a wet fish. His chest was in pain and his vision foggy and dark. As darkness and silence came over him, he heard voices calling his name, growing fainter and more distant every second.

()()()

He awoke with a shudder. It was morning outside the tent, cold blue light creeping underneath the flaps. "You're awake," he heard a voice say and turned. Cley was sitting watching over him.

"I... am," he confirmed, sitting up. His head spinning a little. He vaguely remembered falling... entering the tent... Bran and Rickon. He closed his eyes, feeling tears come to them and trickle down his cheeks, leaving slimy wet trails down them. "What... what's happened?" He had to think of something else. Pity wouldn't help him, he reached down into his depth to find his fury.

"Ser Rodrik went to negotiate with the Ironmen," Cley told him, passing him a cup of cold water. "Theon refused to surrender. He has put the noose around Beth Cassel's neck, and is threatening to hang her if the host doesn't retreat by sundown."

"That won't happen," Tristan said.

"It won't," Cley confirmed. "Rodrik has given Theon that time frame to surrender the castle before he attacks."

Tristan got to his feet. "Where is Elmar?" He said. His squire would dress him for battle.

"Outside," Cley said.

He nodded. "I must arm myself," he said. "I will be participating in this attack."

"I'd expect nothing less," Cley said, standing up himself. "I'll send him in and go and tell Ser Rodrik you're up."

"Thank you," he said as Cley departed.

Elmar entered, his mousy brown hair damp with sweat, he had clearly been doing something. "My Prince," he said, bowing his head. "I'm... I'm sorry about your brothers."

He highly doubted that Elmar, who had more siblings than fingers and toes, truly knew what it meant to lose two of your three brothers in one swoop. Then he remembered that two Freys were also in the castle, although he didn't know if they had survived or not. "Thank you, Elmar," he replied. Elmar had been eager to talk to Arya as they rode from Harrenhal to the Twins, but Tristan had kept their conversations short, formal and had concealed their betrothal from Arya. He had just found her and didn't want her running off. A short explanation that it would be best if their mother told Arya, and the threat of feeding his heart to Shield if he did anything that caused him to lose her was enough to make Elmar keep his silence. "Arm me," he said. "I intend to battle this day."

Elmar did so. He was getting increasingly better at arming him, which was good. He made only one or two fumbles with the straps this time, far better than the Green Fork where he had put the armour on in the wrong order a couple of times. "Well done," he said, when Elmar was done. "Now come, we go to see Ser Rodrik."

Ser Rodrik was with Leobald and Cley watching the grey walls of Winterfell from the edge of the camp. "My Prince," his Master at Arms greeted him. "The turncloak makes no movements to surrender the castle. It seems we will be storming the walls."

"We have more than enough men," Tristan noted. "It will be swift."

"But will it be swift enough for Beth?" Rodrik asked, his voice slightly hoarse. The man was effectively sacrificing his only surviving child to carry out his duty.

Tristan remembered Beth's infectious laugh and bouncy red hair. "I won't let another die," he said to Rodrik. He looked at the walls. It had been a long time, but in the past he had scaled them.

"How can we prevent it?" Rodrik asked.

He stroked his beard, remembering when he had been forced to shave it for the southerners. He had told his mother that he would stop Bran climbing that day. He hadn't. How much harm would have been prevented if he had? "How many are there?" He asked Rodrik.

"Not many," his Master of Arms assured him. "A captive we took at Torrhen's Square told us that Theon took the castle with fewer than forty men."

"They can't be watching every approach," Tristan said. "Take the horsemen and ride around the castle, sound warnhorns, wave banners, draw the eyes of the ironmen garrison. I will use that opportunity to sneak closer to the walls and scale them. I will keep Beth safe, I promise."

"Will that work?" Cley asked.

Tristan nodded. "I'll dull my weapons and armour with mud, that will prevent them from seeing the glint of sun on metal, and I'll stay close to the ground."

"It may be the best way," Rodrik said. "Take some men of the garrison with you. Keep low to the ground and drag a ladder with you, it should be disguised against the earth, and then scale the wall. Make sure you wear only mail," Rodrik added. "It will be enough to protect you and the bulk won't show up against the grass."

Tristan looked over the wall and the stretch of grass. He was right, you can dull full plate as much as you like, but it would still be grey and very bulky, he would stick to his mail. The south eastern tower had a large Greyjoy Kraken flowing from it. "I'll scale the wall there," he said, pointing to the wall near the tower. "As I go to save Beth, the men will cut down that banner. When they do, the men should attack, we can overwhelm the Ironmen."

"And betray our offer to the Ironmen."

Tristan nodded. "They aren't going to honour it. Besides, I won't tell anyone, and none will blame us. Not when Winterfell is ours again."

"All are eager to see the Turncloak dead," Cley confirmed.

Ser Rodrik looked uneager. "My prince, betraying them like this... it is not the most honourable route."

"You made the agreement, Rodrik," Tristan reminded him. "I did not. If anyone betrays an oath, let it be me, and I will suffer the consequences, and I will suffer them gladly."

"It is the best chance for your daughter," Leobald Tallhart reminded Ser Rodrik. "The taste of victory will mask that of breaking an oath with oath breakers and turncloaks."

Rodrik did not need much persuading. No doubt he saw Theon as part of his own failure. "I gave that boy steel, taught him how to wield it," he muttered. "Very well. I will lead the horsemen."

"I will command men to assault the western wall," Leobald Tallhart said. "We will move as soon as we see the southern assault go in."

"That leaves the south to you," Tristan said to Cley. "Order the attack as soon as you see the banner fall."

"Gladly," Cley said, smiling. "I will help you make the Turncloak pay for what he's done."

"Remember," Tristan said. "Theon must be taken alive. I will not let a story of his valiant last stand emerge. He must die a traitor, at an executioner's hand. At my hand."

"I will tell the men," Rodrik said. "You had best get your men ready," he told Tristan.

"I will," he assured the three of them. "Ready yourselves, today we retake Winterfell."

()()()

"This is your chance to back out," Tristan told Elmar as he smeared mud on his own weapons.

Elmar shook his head. "I am your squire. My place is at your side," he swore.

Tristan nodded. He couldn't doubt the boy's courage. "Very well," he said. He turned to the dozen men who would be coming with them, mud on their helms, mail and swords. "Are you ready?"

"Aye," they answered. They dragged their ladder towards them. While they had been preparing themselves, others had been wrapping leaves and foliage around the ladder to give it a little more disguise against the grasses outside Winterfell.

'then let's go," he said, and they all got to the ground and wrapped one arm around the ladder. Behind them they heard the camp as a flurry of activity, men banging spears on the ground, hammering swords against shields and sounding drums and warhorns. Such activity was going on around the entire castle, to disguise their approach to the wall.

Dragging the ladder was an uncoordinated mess of a task. They hadn't had the time to practice their dragging and work in tandem, so sometimes their under arms got jarred as the rung below them slammed into it. But luckily, nothing seemed to have seen them, so they moved inch by inch closer to the walls. He wished Shield were here, but there was no disguising a Direwolf, so his faithful companion had remained behind.

The ground was soft beneath him and his fingers dug in several times. One time his boot did as well, but Elmar, coming up behind him was able to jerk it free for him, and they pressed on, the sound from the camps dimming as they got closer to the wall.

When the ladder's prongs hit the wall, Tristan and the man on the other side of the ladder dropped their holds and scrambled against the walls. Each of the men behind them continued crawling until they were all against the wall. "Ready?" He asked them in a whisper. They nodded. "Then let's get this ladder up. We have to be as fast as possible. Go!" His men rushed to take the ladder and raise it up, the prongs dragging along the stone as it was raised higher and higher before it settled against the wall and they forced the prongs on the bottom into the soft ground to keep it stable. He ascended first, clambering up the ladder ahead of the rest. He kept ready to draw his dagger if there was someone waiting for him at the other end.

But there wasn't, the Ironmen didn't seem to have enough men to man the walls, which fitted with what Rodrik had learned at Torrhen's Square. He drew his sword and stepped to the side to let Elmar and the rest over. When Elmar and the first two men were over the first wall, he pulled them to one side. "We"re going to save Beth," he whispered to them. He tapped the next one to come over with his sword. "Gather the rest and go and tear down that banner." He nodded and Tristan turned. He had to find Beth, as soon as the assault began, she would be set to swing. Hopefully Theon didn't think Rodrik would dare attack while his daughter was threatened. They raced across a bridge linking the outer wall to the inner wall and, when he looked down into the courtyard, he saw her. Beth was standing at a gibbet in the courtyard, a rope around her neck and standing on a bucket, two ironmen on either side of her. Her shoulders were shaking in fear. "Down there!" He hissed and turned to race for the tower. He took the steps two at a time, racing down, Elmar and the men struggling to keep up. The sound of horns and trumpets and drums suddenly rose into a glorious crescendo, and he knew the attack was beginning, he had perhaps half a minute before the ironmen set Beth to swing. He burst out of the door of the tower and, ignoring everything else raced towards Beth, sword held high.

The ironmen looked surprised and slightly unsure at what to do. But they came to their senses and they grinned, rushing him, one with two axes in hand and the other with a longsword. The one with the sword paused only to kick the bucket out from under Beth who flailed around desperately, legs kicking the air.

The one with the axes aimed a strike with both of them, one for his head, the other for his legs. He dropped low, blocking the axe going for his legs with his sword while letting the other fly over his head, missing it by a foot. Reaching out he clasped the tip of his sword with his hand and wrenched hard, jerking the axe out of the ironman's grip and ramming his shoulder into his stomach, winding the warrior and sending him to the ground with a gasp. Then he dived to one side to get out of the way of the swordsman, who charged him, sword raised. _A thrust beats a slash_ , he charged forward and thrust up, the point of his steel punching through the ironman's neck. He pulled his sword out and left the man to choke on his blood as he raced forward to the unprotected gallows where Beth was flailing desperately her face bright red. With a single slash he cut through the rope and she fell to the ground gasping. Jumping over her form he strode towards the warrior with one axe, now clambering to his feet, and took his head off with a single slash of steel and a spurt of bright red watering the ground.

He raced back to Beth, dropping his sword and pulling out his dagger, cutting through the ropes binding her wrists and what was left of her noose. A bright purple ring of a bruise circles her neck and her hands leapt up to it as soon as they were free. "It's okay," he whispered to her, pulling her to her feet, "it's okay Beth you're safe now, I'm here, and your father's coming."

She began to regain her breath, but nodded, her eyes watering and clutched at his body closely as Elmar and the other two men arrived on the scene. "Elmar, take Beth and watch over her." Elmar nodded and tried to take one of Beth's arms but she snatched it away, looking at the twin towers on his surcoat with fear. "It's okay Beth, Elmar is my squire and he'll watch over you." Beth shook her head violently and refused to be parted from his arm. "Beth please, I need my arm."

"Tristan!" A roar sounded and he looked up. Theon the Traitor stood with another four ironmen having just emerged from the main keep, his men armoured and armed and Theon with his bow in hand.

"Bastard!" He hissed

"Kill him!" Theon ordered and his men advanced charged.

He tried to tug away from Beth as he heard more sounds coming from the walls, Rodrik must have begun his attack. "Get ready," he ordered his men who stepped up, swords in hand. "Beth I need my arm!" But she clung on.

The first of his men grunted, an arrow through his chest and he staggered. As an ironman attacked him he tried to raise his sword but a second arrow punched through his chest and a battleaxe carved through his chestplate. "Beth!"

The other soldier tried to fight three enemies at once but only glanced one blow off his arm before he too was cut down. Elmar had frozen in terror as the first ironman, axe still dripping blood descended on him. With no time to wait he dragged Beth and threw himself between his squire and his attacker. The grate of axe on steel was nearly as unbearable as the pain that shot through his ribs, but his mail held. He lunged forward with his dagger the only weapon he had left and plunged it into the eye of the ironman. "Elmar, your sword!" He roared, releasing his dagger and holding out his left hand awkwardly, his own longer blade lay discarded by the remains of the noose. 'sorry Beth," He whispered, hefting her weight and throwing her aside, her fingers tearing from his sword arm, freeing him for battle. "Elmar guard her!" He raised his sword to block the first attack deflecting it aside and ducking low, cutting across the stomach of his attacker. Like a hundred eels the ironman's guts wriggled free of his stomach, flopping on the floor with a squelch and a rain of red fluids as the man's upper body fell back gracefully until his head touched the ground, his two halves only connected by his spine. But there were still two left. He leapt forward, adjusting his grip and locking blades with the first attacker, pushing his own sword along until the two crossguards were interlocked.

"My lord, the traitor!" Tristan glanced at Theon and saw him raise his bow. He shoved the ironman back and leapt in front of Elmar, a slamming pain going through his chest. He reached up and jerked the arrow free, bloodless, it hadn't gone through his mail and aketon, but by the gods he was feeling it. He attacked the ironmen again ducking under a sword strike and driving his sword through the swordsman's stomach. A warm blood ran down his wrist and he heard a chuckle in his ears and the man's arms tightened around him, gripping him in a bear hug. The final attacker closed in, axe raised and a wide grin on his bearded face. He grunted and tried to pull free but the dying man was holding on tight. As the last attacked stopped before him he raised his axe high, ready to bring down. Then Elmar slammed into him, Tristan's dagger plunging into the attacker's legs, and then again, and again, the steel a blur as it rose and fell into the ironman blood spurting out in small fountains.

The man holding him groaned in frustration and anger that he wouldn't take Tristan with him to whatever hell he went to, but then pulled his head back and slammed it into Tristan's face. He cried out as blinding pain shot through his features staggering him and making his ears ring. "My lord, Beth!"

He blinked his eyes again and saw that Theon's bow was raised and aimed at the now prone and quivering Beth. "I told Rodrik I would kill her if I was attacked."

 _I won't let her die!_ He dived in front of Beth and a second pain in his wrist joined that in his head as the great gates of Winterfell opened and Rodrik led the northmen back into Winterfell. But it was all becoming dark, all of it, he turned to make sure Beth was okay but rolled onto his left hand, heightening the pain and he cried out weakly. "My lord!" Elmar's voice was distant, like he was calling from across a lake or within a crypt when the darkness took him, leaving him with only pain.


	51. Book 2 Loren VI

"Stannis Baratheon's fleet was just spotted sailing up along Massey's point," Loren commented to his sister, looking up from the raven's scroll. "At a count of two hundred vessels of war."

"That's more than we have," his sister replied, eating at her pie.

"Yes, Cersei," Loren congratulated her. "That's more than we have. They'll be here any day now; battle will be upon us." The city was on edge enough as it was. Stannis Baratheon's land army had arrived days and days ago, sat upon the southern edge of the Rush, their prize so close, yet out of reach, as long as the Rush remained his. When the fleet arrived as well... it would not be easy, but as long as he could score an early success, that should be enough to keep order in the city.

She didn't respond to that first, spearing a piece of fruit on the end of her knife and plucking it into her mouth. "We have strong walls," Cersei said, as though to reassure herself more than anything. "High walls. If they come closer to them, we'll rain death on them."

"Rain death," Loren repeated. "Are you quoting father?" That sounded like the sort of thing he would say.

She looked at him with raised eyebrows. "Why shouldn't I, he's good at strategy."

"He only let the Stark boy make a fool of him twice now," Loren replied. "Of all of us." He took a slice off the ham and ate it. "I don't remember the hunters bringing in many pigs recently." He commented, measuring Cersei for her response.

"A token of esteem from Lady Stokeworth, she wishes the leave of both of us to return home."

He nodded. Of course she did. These lordlings of the crown were happy enough to stay in the capital as long as there was defence and strength there, but as soon as a threat to it came, the leeches peeled off and went looking for a safer blood source. "Tell her that the roads are unsafe, if she wants protection she can take a raven and summon as much of her garrison down here as possible."

"I triple the size of the city watch and you complain about numbers?" Cersei asked him, seemingly incredulous at his clear shortsightedness. "Why did you let Tyrion take so many men with him then. The gold cloaks and knights I can understand, but we could have made use of his savages."

"Not on the walls." He explained. "That isn't how they fight. We need discipline here, not numbers, numbers won't save us, unless you happen to have an army hidden around here that I haven't heard of? Besides," he added, spearing more ham. "They are Tyrion's men, not mine."

'that means they could be Stannis" men now," Cersei said.

Loren shook his head. "Tyrion is loyal. He loves Jaime. He loves Tommen and Myrcella. He saw Stannis" letter, his victory means their deaths. Tyrion will try to save us with the Tyrells. War may make for strange bedfellows, but Tyrion and Stannis? No."

As the swan was being served, the queen questioned him about the conspiracy of the Antler Men. She seemed more annoyed than afraid. "Why are we plagued with so many treasons? What injury has House Lannister ever done these wretches?"

"Would you like me to answer in terms of severity, or chronology?" He replied simply. "You weren't here on the day of the sack, Cersei, I was, that and the way Joff has been treating these people...The lion has done them plenty of harm, and looking at the army of chivalry stationed on the other side of the Rush, only awaiting the ships to help them cross, it also looks likely to lose." Both of those were dangerous, though right now he wasn't sure which. 'they want to be on the winning side."

"And you have them all?"

Loren nodded, pushing aside the swan which was too rich for his taste. "Varys says so."

"You put too much trust in the eunuch."

"I'm sure I do," Loren confessed. "But I have no other way of confirming that I have them all or not."

Cersei seemed to accept that bit at least, and had bitten back a retort about the day their father sacked the city. "Varys is such a wonder," she commented dryly. "When I first arrived, I thought I had no truer friend in this city. I suspect the Mad King thought the same, and Robert too I don't doubt. But now..." She studied him and he narrowed his gaze, trying to discern her thoughts. "He tells me you mean to take the Hound from Joff in the battle."

Damn the cockless wonder, maybe he should send for Ilyn Payne and have his head. But he seemed to hate Stannis Baratheon, and was no friend to the Starks or Greyjoys, and he was useful to them. 'sandor is one of the top soldiers I have in the city this moment," he told her. "I need the Hound and Balon Swann to lead sorties, to make certain Stannis gets no toehold on our side of the Blackwater. If the chain keeps his fleet out, Stannis' soldiers can only cross by raft."

"Won't our fleet be behind the chain?" Cersei asked.

He shook his head. "Not entirely. I shall be sending it out beyond the Rush to harry Stannis" fleet. They"ll retreat before they are threatened, but I'll need as many warships as possible to make these blows his home. That leaves the Rush open to being rafted, with only light opposition on the ships. I need the Hound and Balon to help me repel any assaults."

"And Joff?" Cersei demanded. "You mean to put him into battle without his three best guards at his back?"

"Three?" He asked. "Ah, Jaime," he realised when he saw a flash of pain on his face. "Well you chose Osmund Kettleblack for the white, dismissed Barristan Selmy and I can do nothing about Jaime right now. But, Meryn Trant, Mandon Moore and Boros Blount will be with Osmund at the King's side."

"Then why not use them as well?" She asked him, looking at him fiercely. "Keep Joff back in the keep, he's thirteen, Loren."

He raised an eyebrow. "I saw this city burn at thirteen," he reminded her. "Robert Baratheon at thirteen was stronger than I am at thirty. The boy wants to be his father's son. Let him. Joff wears the finest armour gold can buy, and he'll have a dozen gold cloaks around him at all times. If the city looks to be in the least danger of falling, I'll have him escorted back to the Red Keep at once."

"Thirteen, Loren!" Cersei insisted, her near shriek making him flinch. "A boy!"

"A boy who wishes to be part of the battle. It's the most sense that has come from between his lips since I arrived in this city. Robert won the Trident leading from the front, killing Rhaegar in single combat. Robb Stark has led from the front in every battle he's fought and every victory he's won. Stannis is not a man to lead in such a manner, but he will be there, none the less, visible for his men, those who are to fight for him. Joff must do the same. The men will fight more fiercely, they will be more loyal to a king who shares in their peril rather than hides behind his mother's skirts." He pushed his plate aside, his appetite sated for now. "Is there anything else? Only I have other matters that must be seen to tonight, nice though this has been."

"I am not done here!" She told him defiantly.

"I am, unless you have something productive for me to comment on."

She looked at him venomously, but said nothing, and so he turned to leave. "No harm will befall Joff in this battle brother, no harm at all, or you will feel it as deeply as me."

He turned back to her, bemused. "I don't care about the boy nearly as much as you seem to think I do."

She almost glided towards him. "I am not talking about Joff, I know you care so little about me or my family, such a disgrace to the Lannisters as you always were. No. First you took Tommen from me, now you seek to put Joff in harm's way. Well for every son I have you have a daughter."

"I have as many daughters as you have children, and thankfully they are safe at Casterly Rock. With luck Tommen will be there soon. Unfortunately, if he is to keep his crown, Joff must stay here and we have no way of slipping Myrcella out now, not with our enemies so close."

Cersei nodded, seemingly calm. He hated this about dealing with his sister, she was like wildfire, burning brightly one second and dimly flickering in the next. "Yes, your children are at the Rock, where you haven't been for years. I may have been here, but I kept contacts there while you were riding around the east playing at being a great war-leader. You know what happened to that serving girl bitch?"

He'd heard the rumours, things were not always easy to come by at the Rock, even when you lived there. Robert Baratheon had bedded a serving girl while there, a girl who had borne twins. All three of them had vanished shortly after the birth. The rumour was that Cersei had had the children killed and the mother sold into slavery. He didn't reply, better to know where she was going with this first.

"I can make things happen in the Rock, unthinkable things. If any harm comes to my son, your children will suffern an acc-" Loren cut her off by seizing her throat in his tight grip.

He held her tightly, his grip not faltering and her eyes bulged in her skull, her face turning red. "Don't," he said simply, watching as her face got darker and darker, tears wetting her eyes. "Don't ever threaten my children, Cersei. Not ever." Her face was blue when he let her fall to the ground, she gasped for breath, retching and choking as and crawled like an animal. "Not ever." He reminded her, before turning and leaving the room. He knew it was Cersei's nature to make threats, he'd grown up with them after all, but his children were not part of this, they wouldn't grow up in that way and they wouldn't be used as pawns by Cersei or by anyone.

Once he left he took a slow walk back to his chambers, knowing that he had a meeting to go to that required his full attention and that he'd need to be calm for that.

Back at his chambers, Gerold was waiting for him. "Are they here?" He asked.

Gerold nodded. "They are, and my men are ready, only call when you need them."

He nodded and opened the door.

"This is quite an ungodly hour my lord hand," Littlefinger smirked at him as he entered. "One might think you don't deign to sleep like us mere mortals."

"I have a city to prepare for battle, Stannis Baratheon will be here shortly, and every hour I am not readying the city leaves another crack through which his forces can slip," he replied, circling his desk and sitting down behind it. "And that is why you two are here."

"We will both aid you as well as we are able, my lord Hand," Varys simpered, bowing his head.

Loren nodded, "you will. Lord Varys, since the arrest of the Antler men, have there been any other signs of dissidence?"

Varys shook his head. "I can say no safely, my lord, since the arrest of the opportunists there has been only silence from others who are disgruntled, my little birds tell me that they are only waiting. They still believe that Stannis is going to win and that they only wait for that day."

"So there is nothing else you feel I need to know?"

"No my lord. You removal of Prince Tommen was subtle, none who didn't see the boy regularly are even aware of his absence. The goldcloaks are prepared to defend the city, none have cause to join Stannis Baratheon." _As long as we are winning,_ Loren thought.

"Good. If there is truly nothing else?"

"Nothing, my lord."

He nodded. "Very well, Lord Baelish, what news from the treasury?"

The taxes on entering the city are working to raise enough money for its defence," Littlefinger explained. "Without a massive increase in expenditure, we can sustain this level of spending for at least two months before we have to cut back or bring in new sources of income."

"The sellswords?"

"Paid generously enough, and no one is offering them any other form of pay. They are ours."

"Do you have any other news for me?"

Baelish chuckled. "You flatter me my lord, no, I have nothing more to say, your brother was always a much more talkative man."

He ignored the reference to Tyrion. But if they had nothing more for him... "Gerold."

The door opened and Gerold entered the room flanked by half a dozen guardsmen. "My Lord."

"Escort lords Baelish and Varys to the dungeons."

The spider and the mockingbird were both bewildered looking between Loren and his men in alarm. "My lord, have we done something?" Varys asked, Littlefinger's face burned with an anger he couldn't contain.

"No," he replied getting to his feet. "But if you have nothing new for me I have no need for your spy networks. As I said I must prepare this city for Stannis' arrival, and I don't trust either of you not to betray the city to him. You'll be safe and fed in the cells until the battle is over."

"This... you!" Littlefinger began.

"Don't get so angry, Lord Baelish. I'm doing you a favour, if Stannis takes the city and finds you in the cells, well, an enemy of the Lannisters may well be a friend of his." He waved his hand and his guards escorted the two greatest plotters in King's Landing away. Varys allowed himself to be escorted, but his men had to seize Littlefingers arms and drag him from the room.

When they were gone, Gerold turned back to him. "Is there anyone else, my lord?"

"My sister," he replied, only half joking. "But arresting the Queen Regent is too far I'm afraid. That is all for now, if I need anyone else taken, I will call for you."

"As you say, my lord." He made to leave but then turned back. "You should get some rest, my lord, you are no use to us so tired. And without you, the city falls."

He nodded, sitting back in his chair. "I will my friend, I will, there are just a few more things for me to handle first."


	52. Book 2 Robb III

_TheSwordinTheDarkness310: Thanks very much!_

 _Naruto9tail: Well that's the sign that I'm doing something right about this._

* * *

The Crag was more of a ruin than a castle. The maester at Ashemark had told them that the Westerlings had lacked the funds to maintain the upkeep of the castle for quite some time. However it lay along the coast road from Casterly Rock to the Banefort, and taking it would allow him to cut the two castles off from each other and watch over the nearby lands.

But even a ruin, when garrisoned, was formidable, and unlike his last siege, the Crag lay against the coast, there was no way to surround and overwhelm it. The arrows and bolts still rained down on their position, a hundred yards from the front gate, inside a ditch. "Are the Smalljon and Black Walder going yet?" He called out.

"Smalljon is," Dacey Mormont said, indicating to their left where the Umber Giant was moving towards the southern side of the ruin. The castle was so ruined that no ladders were needed, the men could scale the rough walls easily enough with their retainers. They had pulled down one tree and formed a ram from it, it was being brought up from the reserve now. "And there goes Black Walder," Dacey called, pointing to the north side of the castle where the twin towers of Frey were also on the move.

"We need the ram!" He yelled out. Without it Walder and Smalljon would be left to their own devices.

"Coming, your grace," his squire said, and sure enough, the ram was coming, carried by a dozen men.

"Shields up!" Robb called. "Protect the carriers!" His men gathered around the ram, ready to charge to the castle gate and smash it down. "Ready?"

"Aye," called out the men in unison. Some crude handles had been rammed into the tree trunk, capped in a simple iron ball.

"Go!" He ordered, and the fifty men charged, a dozen to carry and use it, the rest to cover them with their shields. He held his shield over his head, with Patrek Mallister's in front of him and Robin Flint's in front of him, Grey wind slunk at their feet, crouching low to the ground. They raced forwards, boots slamming on the uneven ground as the thunk of arrow on wooden shield sounded in their ears. "WINTERFELL! THE KING IN THE NORTH!" His men called as they charged and he felt a smile cross his features. He felt his arm jerk as an arrow slammed into his shield.

They got to the gate and huddled around the ram. It slammed into the great wooden doors like a giant working at the anvil. The first made the door shake, the second made it splinter, the third made it buckle and the fourth made it break. "Charge!" He roared and his men poured through the gate, keeping their shields raised as arrows and rocks were dropped from the few murder holes in the gatehouse.

They spread out as soon as they entered. There were men of House Westerling all around the courtyard. Had they formed an organised shield wall, they might have held off his assault. Unfortunately for them, they hadn't, and as skilled as a guardsman was, his men were better. He charged towards one of them, a stout man with a longaxe and shield. They locked shields, Robb keeping his head bent so the blade of the longaxe could only ring off his helm. Shifting his weight, he used his shield to drag the guardsman's up, and thrust underneath it with his sword, the blade ringing off the guard's mail. He cut low again, hammering against the mail and pushing back with his shield so the and stumbled. Seizing his chance, Robb charged and knocked him to the ground, the longaxe going flying from the man's grip. The guard held up his hand in surrender when Robb put his blade to the man's throat. Olyvar rushed forwards and took him up, binding his hands.

A glance showed him that the battle was theirs, the men of the Crag were throwing down their weapons. Grey Wind was savaging one on the floor and the men of Frey and Umber were storming along the ruined walls. The gate to the keep was half rotted, they had clearly hoped to stop any attackers at the outer gate, or perhaps they were counting on their poverty to dissuade any attacker from coming. It hadn't, and now it was his, another castle, another victory.

Pain lanced through his right thigh like a red hot poker and he screamed out in pain as he fell to the ground, catching himself on his arm. He vaguely heard a rush of activity and armoured boots as his noble guards surrounded him. Biting through the pain, he clutched at his thigh and the crossbow bolt sticking through it.

"Inside, get him inside!" He heard someone call and he was seized roughly under the armpits and hoisted up. He roared as someone bumped into the bolt. Grey Wind leapt to his defeat and kept his men away from his wound.

He heard men trying to tell him things. The Westerling Castellan and family had been captured, the last of the garrison had thrown down their arms, the banners were now flying from the walls, but his guards shoved them aside, his noble companion calling out for the castle's maester and the directions to the Lord's chambers. "Put... me... down," he murmured. No king should be carried by anything but his steed. "Let me... let me walk."

His men didn't seem to listen or hear him. Had he even said the words?

They burst into a bedchamber, small for that of a lord, but with a bed more inviting than a maiden. "Gently!" He recognised Perwyn Frey's voice call as his companions put him on the bed, laying his head back against the soft pillow, not that it made a difference to him in his helm. Reaching up he rapped on the top of his helm, hoping that someone would realise what he wanted. Olyvar, his squire did, and unstrapped his helm, pulling it from his head. He groaned as he lay his head back. The bolt had shot through his thigh from front to back, to keep from digging it in further, he had to rest it on his side, which wasn't comfortable in his armour.

"It's okay Your Grace," Olyvar said. "The Maester is coming."

The maester was indeed coming, with Ser Joseth Keath's blade at his throat, and a dozen men from behind carrying as many potions and maester's tools that they could carry. "Treat the king," Joseth snarled as he pushed the maester to Robb's side. "And don't try anything. The wolf will know if you do." Grey Wind snarled

"He'll rip our guts out and make you watch as he eats them" Dacey Mormont added.

Pale as chalk, the maester nodded, and was released. He bent down and looked at the bolt. "We... we'll have to get the armour off him," the maester said.

"The bolt is sticking through it," Perwyn Frey pointed out. He reached out to try and unclasp the cuisse, but Robb yelled as it jerked his leg.

"He'll need milk of the poppy," another voice said, a new voice. A girl had entered the room, a slender, pretty girl with chestnut curls and a heart shaped face.

"Who are you?!"Half his noble companions put their hands to their weapons, the other half already had them drawn."

"That is lady Jeyne," the Maester called out at once, seemingly relieved that she had come. "She knows more about healing than I."

"He needs milk of the poppy. There is a lot of blood in the thigh, if his leg jerks, even a little, while the quarrel is being removed, it could be fatal." She was reasoned and calm in the face of steel. He shifted to get a better look at her, but it only made another lance of pain shoot through his leg.

He took several deep breaths to try and dull the pain, closing his eyes to it. When he opened them the maester was passing a cup of thick white liquid to his lips. He snatched at the chained man's wrist, making him cry out. "Give... me... that," he grunted and took the cup. He held it out towards Grey Wind who gave it a sniff. Looking into his master's eyes, Grey Wind gave his consent. Robb brought the cup to his lips and drank the thick, white milk.

* * *

He woke to a throbbing headache. Forcing himself into a sitting position he felt pain shoot through his leg and looked down. His thigh was heavily bandaged, but the bandages were clean and the leg was still there. He remembered the crossbow bolt, but if he was awake and he still had his leg, then the worst had passed.

Grey Wind howled in joy and Robb smiled, trust his wolf to let everyone know he was still alive. Immediately the guards outside burst in, swords in hand, looking around for the supposed assailant. He held up a hand. "It's... fine," he grimaced as pain shot through his leg again as he shifted to a new position.

Though no one would believe him of course. Greatjon and Smalljon, Dacey Mormont and every one of his commanders, even Black Walder Frey had come to him to see that he was well.

He did as he knew a king must, he told them that he was well, thanked them for their support and laughed at any joke about his leg. But anxiety gnawed at him, they wouldn't tell him how long he had been asleep, and what had happened in the war. If it had been days much could have happened, if it had been weeks, anything might have happened, if it had been months...

Eventually he was able to call a bedside vigil of his commanders to discuss the war.

"I'll say this, it was hard to pull my men away, each one of them has lined their pockets with more silver than they've seen in their lives," Lord Karstark declared. "Your Grace, coming here was the best move we could have made in the war."

Robb nodded. Silver was good, silver would pay for steel and steel would pay for victory, but he had come here for a different reason, a far greater prize than silver. "What of Tywin Lannister?"

"No fear of interference from that one," Black Walder replied, arms crossed over his broad chest. "Ser Edmure held him at the Trident when he tried to come to save his home. We are free to reap a far greater bounty from the Westerlands."

Robb growled, his anger roused.

"Your Grace?" Patrek Mallister said.

"My leg," Robb lied. Most accepted his two words, but some, Greatjon included, had a different expression. They knew why he had come, what the core of his plan had been. To draw Tywin west, where he could be trapped and killed or captured, leaving the way open for Stannis or Renly to take King's Landing at their leisure. He knew the chance of negotiating a free North with the Lannisters was slim, but Renly or Stannis, them he could talk to, and they had not taken his father's head.

"Edmure will be praised," Robb affirmed. "Victory against Tywin Lannister is to be celebrated. But what else has happened in the war? What of the North?"

He saw Smalljon and Dacey Mormont look to each other. "I... I'm sorry, Your Grace. But Winterfell... it was taken by Ironmen... under the command of Theon Greyjoy. Prince Bran and Prince Rickon... they say that Greyjoy had them killed."

He felt a shiver of cold and heat, a wave of anger and sorrow tear through him. "Leave me." He said at once. Everyone obeyed at once.

Bran and Rickon... Winterfell... The North... Theon. How could it all have gone so wrong? How could Theon have killed them? He'd grown up with them. They'd been protected. Tristan was going north. They were behind walls. They had wolves.

He felt the tears race their way down his cheeks.

* * *

No one interrupted him but for reasons of healing, Lady Jeyne changed his bandages and washed out the wound in silence before bidding a hasty retreat. The second time though, he caught her arm. "I'm sorry," he said.

She looked fearfully at his hand. "Sorry?" She squeaked.

"I never thanked you. I conquered your home and yet you treated me."

"Your men have treated us with kindness despite our being at war?"

"Kindness. It can be freely given. My father gave it to Theon and he..." He stopped talking as Jeyne sat beside him on the bed.

"My Lord... I do not know what it means to have lost a brother, let alone two at once, I can only imagine the pain you are in." He didn't reply. She reached out and touched his chest with her soft fingertips. "The heart hurts as everything else does. Do not wall it off and let it freeze in the cold."

He reached up and took her fingers gently. He meant to remove them from him but ended up pushing them against his chest, feeling the warmth of her hand spreading into him. "My lord..." she began.

"Don't," he said. He held her hand to his chest softly and bowed his head to hide the new tears.

She reached out with her other hand and cupped his cheek, brushing away a tear with her thumb.

He felt her lips on his never realising she had leant in. He pushed back with his own, the feeling of warmth and life on his face like wine to a drunkard gone a week without wine. She tasted sweet, innocent and pure and the warmth of it came without condition. They pulled back for just a moment, and in that moment he fixed eyes with Grey Wind.

As Jeyne kissed him again, he thought of those eyes. Wolfblooded. That was how father described Tristan, quick to anger and passion. Indulging in the soft embrace of a woman after a tragedy, that was Tristan's way. It wasn't his... it couldn't be.

He pulled away.

"My lord," Jeyne breathed, leaning in once more, but he raised his fingers to her lips and held her fast.

"Get out," he said.

"But..."

"Get out now," he insisted. Jeyne looked as though he had run her through with a blade for a moment before gathering herself and departing.

When he was alone he locked eyes with Grey Win again and nodded. Tristan engaged in quick anger and passion. He had to be different. He had to set his eyes on the future, on the North and its freedom. The struggle had claimed the lives of two of his brothers, and it was in their name that he would win.


	53. Book 2 Daenerys IV

The bells had sounded across the city that very morning. Even before she saw the guardsmen and goldcloaks storming out of the Red Keep, before she saw carts full of arrows and spears and food and fodder rattle along the cobbled streets underneath the portcullis of the keep she knew what it meant. The enemy had been sighted. Not the enemy army, the army that had become a common sight on the southern shore of the Rush, they drilled in the daytime and feasted in the morning and evening in full view of the starving and beleaguered city the enemy army would fill it's stomachs. No, for the bells to be ringing, the Kingsguard to be deployed and the Hand of the King to be seen everywhere from the docks and the walls to the Throne Room meant that the enemy fleet had come.

She tucked back into an alcove so that she wasn't bowled over as a unit of lion crested men at arms quick marched down the corridor towards the courtyard. Even the Hand's guards from the tower had been called down, giving her relatively free reign of the castle, but she hadn't been able to enjoy it since she'd been immediately called to the sept to offer her prayers for the city's defenders.

She emerged as another trio of wagons trundled out of the keep under heavy escort by the gold cloaks. All around there was a flurry of activity. Archers took one last opportunity to practice at the butts before they were gathered to be taken to one of the walls. Squires and stablehands struggled to reign in great snorting destriers while men at arms gave practice swings with their swords and half a dozen smiths repaired and sharpened damaged blades and armour for the battle to come. Next to them fletchers were still readying arrows in their thousands and bowyers strung spare longbows.

"Move!" She barely made it out the way as yet more soldiers emerged from the keep, met at the base of the steps descending from the keep by a heavily armoured knight with orange thunderbolts on his shield. They stopped before him.

"There's a commotion on the Street of Sisters, we need the street cleared to get supplies through, see to it!" Without another word the soldiers marched towards the entrance to the keep to carry out the orders.

"Make way for the Hand of the King!" Boomed another voice.

Loren Lannister marched across the courtyard surrounded by knights, sellswords, sea captains and other men of war, his heavy scarlet armour glinting like fresh blood in the sun and the jewels in his scabbard gleaming like the eyes of predators. He looked haggard, like he hadn't sat down properly in over a week. He didn't so much as cast a look in her direction even though he passed within feet of her. "-eed men on all gates, double in the south and make sure that-" she barely caught him saying to his attendants as he passed. When they reached their horses they mounted neatly, Loren the first in the saddle. He glanced behind him to the array of horses standing behind him and his guard. This must be the convoy to the sept. She approached and was helped onto a horse by a Lannister squire. Beside her rode some young noble, probably a hostage, dressed in a fine silken shirt. She would have been with Sansa, but she'd already gone ahead in the previous convoy. In order to keep their most valuable prisoners secure, they'd been kept apart for the journey to the sept.

The streets were a whirlwind of activity as the people prepared for the siege. Shopkeepers boarded up their windows with whatever spare wood they could find, the hungry and desperate slunk back into holes or dark sidestreets at the passing of the Hand's retinue. She saw the first body just before they turned onto the street of sisters. An old man lay naked in a gutter, bloody wounds hacked into his torso and the scraps of his clothing remaining around his person. Lord Loren ordered two of his men to dismount and make him respectable enough for burial. He wasn't the first victim of murderous robbery they encountered, and every one of them was made respectable by the Lannister men. As they passed a stall that was empty, four armed men accosting the owner, Lord Loren had them arrested and had the gold cloaks help the stall owner board up his house. He brought calmness and surety to the streets as he passed. She didn't look behind her to see what happened when the lion had passed.

As they entered the sept the party divided. Yesterday they had all stood together, singing the hymns of the seven. Viserys had taught her a few of them, and Sansa others so she kept up as best she could, she sang with the grizzled cooks and innocent children, she sang for mercy for those around her, for Lady Sansa, and for herself. But when the prayers turned to the king, she twisted them. When the Septon called out for the Warrior to give him strength, she prayed that his sword arm failed him in the melee, when he asked the Smith to lend strength to his sword and shield, she prayed that they shattered and sundered beneath the blades of his foes, and when he called on the Father to give him courage to stand against his foe, she prayed that he fled like a coward and everyone of his men deserted him.

Today was the time for private prayers. Lord Loren led the soldiers to the altar of the Warrior to pray for the strength they would need and Sansa followed the tittering noblewomen of the court to the altar of the Mother, to beg for her mercy for themselves, their sons and brothers.

"Finish up your prayers quickly," Lord Loren's voice sang through the vaulted halls of the sept, "we return to the keep before dark. He'd already finished his prayers and was leaving, followed by his commanders, returned to talking about the battle to come already.

"He'll be back," a voice said in her ear and she spun to see Ser Aron standing behind her, his armour strapped on and a sword at his waist. "Don't fear, you still have his protection."

She nodded, until Ser Aron could get her out, she needed him to protect her from Cersei, or Joffrey. "Do you have news for me?" That had to be why he'd approached her, he'd kept such a distance from her unless he had to, for fear of arousing suspicion.

Ser Aron glanced around. "Not here," he took her arm and lead her towards the shadow of the statue of the Maiden. When they were safely away from prying ears, Ser Aron brought them to a halt, his olive face etched with concern. "The plan's off, I can't get you out during the siege."

"What?"

He shook his head mournfully. "The priest, the one who came to you." _How does he know about that?_ "He was to get you out while the battle raged... no longer, he had been imprisoned by the Hand of the King."

Her breath hitched but he rubbed her arm gently. "A pre-emptive measure, the Hand knows nothing of your escape."

"How do you know?"

"We're both still alive."

"Can't you get me out?" She hissed after a pause. How could he do this, tell her when she was going to escape and then, on the eve of the moment, tell her that it wasn't going to happen.

Again Ser Aron shook his head. "I can't, I need to help defend the city."

"But you promised-"

"I never promised I would put you before the half a million souls that call this city home, and if you thought I would you're a fool, and an undeserving one at that."

She didn't reply.

"I wanted-" he stopped talking as a worshipper stopped by to light a candle at the altar of the Maiden before moving on. "I wanted," he continued, to give you this," he reached behind him and held out a fold of heavy brown cloth. Cautiously she opened it and her eyes widened at the sight of the dagger. It was a simple piece of metal, not like the jewelled ones worn by lords and wealthy soldiers, a simple tool.

"Why?"

He placed a hand reassuringly on her shoulder. "Because there is a good chance that this city will be taken. If it is you are in danger, in the heat of the night, you may encounter a man seeking to slake his lusts, or who sees a chance for profit by handing you over to the usurper, or who calls you a Lannister follower and seeks to kill you for it. You need to protect yourself. If the city calls, get to the top of the Keep, as high as you can go and hide until the sun rises. It will be in the night of the sack that men's appetites for murder and rape are raised, as soon as morning comes surrender yourself to Stannis Baratheon, him or his son if possible, they are an honourable sort, if not, find some of his men and go to them. If possible, go with the Lady Sansa, Stannis will not want to bring harm to her and her presence may keep you safe. This," he took the dagger from the cloth, "is as a last resort. No doubt the Queen or her people will try to stop you from fleeing, don't let them. But always remember, go up. Others will run for the stairs to try and escape even as the Baratheon army comes towards the keep, they'll be caught in stables or inns or behind tanners' shops. Getting to the top of the keep, away from the other people, the battle and the royal treasury will help keep you safe."

"Ser Aron." She hurriedly tucked the dagger into her long sleeves as Ser Gerold, the Hand's Right Hand approached. "My Lord requires your efforts to be spent on preparing for the siege. The barrels of sour wine, only half of them have reached the siege crews, we need the rest, get some more men on it, we might have need of it as early as tomorrow, if the captains are right about the distance of the enemy fleet, and the horses, they need to be brought to the stables nearer the gates, we don't have the time to bring them back here to rest, you need to get them moving and-" Ser Gerold paused, looking at Daenerys and blinking several times. "What are you doing here?"

"She was looking for Lord Loren," Ser Aron cut in before she could say anything. "But he left when she arrived."

Gerold nodded. "Well, he won't be back before sundown, he needs to inspect the defences on the walls. And he'll be too busy for you then anyway, Lady Daenerys. You'll have to go with the other noble women of the city."

"Others?" She asked.

Ser Gerold nodded. "Lord Loren's sister, the Queen Regent will be hosting them in her private apartments in the keep, yourself and Lady Sansa will accompany them."

A cold dread spread through her. "But... Lord Loren said-"

"Lord Loren will need every man for the coming battle, he cannot spare anyone from the walls to watch over you. He sends his apologies."

 _No apology can protect me from a knife in the back._ "Ser Aron, we really must depart."

Aron nodded. "Of course. I hope your prayers reach the highest heavens and find you safe come the end of the battle Lady Daenerys," he told her before following Ser Gerold out of the sept, leaving her in the company of shadows and flickering candlelight as the hour of battle came rushing to meet them, and now she had no escape.


	54. Book 2 Lyonel III

"It seems our plan is falling at the first hurdle, Davos told them aboard the deck of the Fury, his father's flagship. "I regret to inform you, my prince, that the Lannisters have raised a boom chain across the mouth of the Blackwater Rush."

Lyonel slammed his fist onto the table in his cabin. Had he been too slow? Or had they raised the chain before he even returned from Storm's End. Most likely the latter. After all, if the Lannisters had the sense to build a boom chain, the latest they would have begun would have been when his father proclaimed himself king. It would have been a little rushed, but clearly it served. No matter, he would break through, he couldn't fail now.

"How do you know this?" Asked Ser Jonothor Barke, a knight formerly sworn to Renly.

"I know this bay well, my lord," he replied.

Lyonel's ears pricked at the mutterings from behind him, the lords behind him murmured how he gained that experience skirting the law and avoiding men like them. "If you have nothing useful to say," he snapped at them. "Be silent! Continue, Ser Davos." He may have been a smuggler, but he had paid for that crime, and now he was a knight, one more trustworthy than any here.

"Two towers had been erected, one either side of the Rush. I didn't recognise them, when I sailed closer, I saw the boom. Given how the large links of the chain entered the water, the chain is resting just below it. A few cranks and it will be fully raised. The southern tower is more heavily reinforced, at my glance, but the northern tower is in the shadow of the Red Keep, a catapult on the walls as well as support from archers up there and we could be kept at quite a distance."

"Blocking us from the Rush," he finished. "Does father know?"

"He likely knows about the towers, he could hardly miss them," Davos said. "But his grace may not have paid them any heed, they could easily pass as lookout towers."

He sighed. "So the Lannisters have kept the chain lowered to both trap us and to prevent father from learning about it." He contemplated his options. "Could we storm the towers?"

"Not without losses," Davos said. "Many of them."

"We can weather such losses, my prince," said Lord Velaryon. "Let us take the towers and lower this chain."

"We don't need to," Ser Manfryd of Morston replied. "Send word to your father to do so, my prince, he will have a better chance and can overwhelm the southern tower."

His father was certainly capable, and that would be a better option than trying to strike out against the tower from the bay. One failed assault would raise the morale of the enemy greatly, and when they had the advantage of walls and towers, he had to do all he could to remove that from them.

"Davos," he asked the Onion knight. "You got a good look at the enemy fleet behind the chain?"

Davos nodded. "I did," he said. "They numbered many, more than a hundred, but less than half are warships proper, the rest have been gathered to give more numbers to the enemy fleet. Our warships should trample over theirs without trouble."

"Not if we can't get to them," Lord Adrien Celtigar muttered.

"We don't need to get to them," said Ser Ondrew Estermont. Everyone looked at the lowly knight. He was so plain looking that the turtle on his surcoat seemed more impressive. "My Prince, the Rush is not the only entrance to the city. It has four sides, one faces the Rush, another is on a cliff, but the other two, north and west, are open."

"But still untouchable you young-" Lord Velaryon began but Lyonel raised a hand to cut him off.

"Carry on, Ser Ondrew," he said.

The knight bowed. "Yes, my prince. The Lannisters have blocked us off from the Rush, to be sure, but not from the rest of the bay, and they have done nothing to hinder the movements of your father. Send word to him. Bring his host to us and we can transport it in full across the bay. Land it north of the city and the Lannister's boom chain will mean nothing."

He couldn't help but let a smile grace his features at the thought. The Lannisters ambitions foiled so completely, spending time and effort on a boom chain and two towers rather than swords and spears. Useful to be sure, but he could make it useless to them. That would make the coming victory all the sweeter. But there was a problem.

"It is not a bad plan, Ser Ondrew," Lyonel conceded. "But there are problems, only apparent to those who do not know the Bay as I and others do."

"What problems?" Ser Manfryd asked.

Lyonel pulled out a map of the bay and unfurled it. "When crossing the Rush, the water flows from west to east," he said, drawing his finger along the line of it. "The water isn't aiding you, but it isn't acting against you, either. But out in the bay it's a different tale. It flows out of the Rush and then turns south. The Spears of the Merling King provide a barrier north of Driftmark and Dragonstone. To the south is the Gullet, the clear way out into the Narrow Sea. It is to there that the water flows. We are here, at the mouth of the Wendwater. For us to cross the bay, we would first have to push through the water flowing south as we try to sail north. Then we'd be in calm waters, to be sure, but remember, we're in a bay, there is no wind to speak of, certainly not north to south. And we will be weighted down by the arms, armour and possibly horses of the men on board. We don't have the ships to transport the entire host at once, perhaps a quarter, particularly if we want to maintain ships to protect against any kind of attack by Lannister ships poised up the bay to sweep down on us."

"How many could we transport per day, my prince?" Ser Davos asked.

He tapped his knuckles on the table, closing his eyes in thought. If they forsook the horses... and committed as many transports as possible... factoring in time to load the ships and unload them at the other end... and making sure they landed far enough north of the city that sorties from knights behind the walls couldn't disrupt them. "Four thousand," he replied, "on the first trip. Fewer on the second, we would need to maintain a force of ships there to evacuate them if the enemy are seen to be stronger than we had thought."

There was a moment of silence. "Then what shall we do, my prince?" Asked the Red Crab of Celtigar.

He could rush the towers, then swarm into the Rush and transport his father's army that way. But how much sweeter would it be to make the Lannister defensive effort obsolete? "Send word to my father," he said. "Tell him that breaking through the Boom Chain is going to be too difficult for my fleet. We'll transport his men on the ships north of the city."

()()()

By the time they had gathered around four thousand men onto their ships, with all their arms and armour, it was well passed mid day, at this rate the return journey would likely be happening in the dark.

He had no men for transport on Fury. His men were manning the scorpions on the right side, with his archers there as well. He'd sent his deckhands to the left side, the side facing the city, to balance it out. He glanced to the Boom as they passed, the chain was still lowered. The enemy ships were moving behind it, turning and rowing up and down the Rush, they seemed to be readying themselves, perhaps they still thought he was rushing them, planning to swarm the boom chain, if so, they were mistaken. If the command of the defence was being led by anyone competent, it was likely they were just taken precautions.

He had mostly a clear line to the city and cliffs beneath it. Only a few ships, _Dog's Nose, Queen Alysanne, Princess Rhaenys_ and _Swift Sword_ floated between _Fury_ and the city. Other ships covered the main fleet further forwards and backwards that he couldn't quite identify, a thin line to keep watch over the boom. On the other side there were many more ships: Of his two hundred, one hundred had been assigned to the transportation, mostly the commandeered vessels from merchants, of which he had fifty three, their big holds transporting sixty men and their arms and armour. Twenty four cogs carrying thirty to forty and the rest of the transports were two or three level galleys, ships with at least five boats that could be used to land the men on the coast, he didn't want them having to make more than one trip with the smaller boats to drop off all the men. Past them were the main warships of the fleet. At the head was Davos Seaworth and his squadron, _Black Betha_ at the head, the _Lady Marya_ and _Wraith_ to either side, captained by his sons Dale and Allard, and Lyonel's own vessel, _Sea Stag_ , with them as well. Since he had command of the _Fury_ , the flagship, he had granted Mathos command of that. Five other galleys, _Water Lance, Iron Doom, Robert's Wrath, Dragonbane_ and _Swiftsail_ followed on behind them, as well as several others that he couldn't see behind other ships. He had sailed alongside _Iron Doom_ and _Swiftsail_ many times before, _Iron Doom_ had been built just prior to the Greyjoy Rebellion, finished two days after news of the Lannister Fleet"s destruction. Named for both the war that was to follow and the great iron ram fixed to the front. He had seen it cleave a pirate ship in two with the ram. _Swiftsail_ was lighter than most, a compliment of archers it's main defence, but the vessel was faster than any other in the fleet. Behind Davos' squadron was that of Lord Velaryon: _Pride of Driftmark_ at the head, with _Seahorse, Harridan_ and _Bold Laughter_ , Lord Velaryon's vessels, and two others, _Salt Heart_ and _Wave Rider,_ were being captained by men from Driftmark, and were part of his squadron on the sea. Others were there as well, just like Davos' squadron. Held in the middle of the line was the force under Davos" pirate friend Sallador Saan. They were skilled and fearless fighters and seamen, Davos assured him, so they were in a position to counter a Lannister force that came from north or south. They had swept Massey's Hook on their way to the Wendwater, but it was still possible Lannister ships were there, but it was more likely they were on Cape Wrath, so he had put the Seaworths and the Velaryons closest to the front to counter an assault before it could strike the transports. Behind Saan were the ships of Celtigar, Bar Emmon, and their squadrons, and the rest of the Royal Fleet.

They made a magnificent display, one that would have been more impressive with the sails unfurled. But since there was no wind in the bay, they served no purpose, so they were curled up still.

He leant over the edge to see the oars at work. They were clearly struggling to pull through the water, but it was the only way for them to move at all, so he just needed a little patience. It may take him a day, but he would land the army there.

They inched forward, the droning of oars and their splashes in the water accompanying the heavy beats of the drummers to keep the men rowing in time. Many of the knights and men at arms and archers that made up the first wave would no doubt be chomping at the bit to get into battle. But he was a sailor and he knew that these things sometimes took time.

He kept his gaze focussed on the west, looking for any sign of activity from his ships on that flank that hinted that the enemy were there and attacking, but no attack came, not even as they cleared the Rush and pressed on into calmer waters that weren't acting against them so much.

"My Prince!" Cried one of the men on the other side of the ship, suddenly. He turned. The man was gesturing rapidly to his side. "We're under attack!"

But that was impossible, the enemy couldn't have sailed from that side. He rushed over, catching himself on the rails.

He cursed. How could he have been so stupid? He had seen it! He had seen it all and completely misread it. The boom chain wasn't half lowered to lure his ships in, it was half lowered to allow their ships out. And they were coming.

The Lannister ships were emerging from the Rush, and they had the current of the river to carry them on. The first few ships were capped at the tip with rams, one and two hundred oar vessels. Four of them, like the lances of knights they were charging at his rear. Behind them he saw a hulking vessel he recognised very well. _King Robert's Hammer_ , the largest ship in the Fleet, a four hundred oar monstrosity. The only vessel he had that could match it was the _Fury_ , but the _Hammer_ wasn't coming for him, it was attacking his rear. He looked to his rear. It was going from bad to worse. As the front and centre of his fleet had pressed on passed the current that held them back, they had left the rear vessels exposed.

"Signal the rest of the fleet!" He yelled. "They are to press onwards, they are _not_ to break, they must escort the transports to their destination! We will turn and face the enemy!" He had ten ships with him in his squadron, and the thin line he had left on the east side of the fleet were already turning. As long as this wasn't turned into a sea battle, he could still transport the men. He rushed to his cabin to retrieve his bow and quiver. A sea battle victory here wouldn't win them anything. They may utterly destroy the enemy fleet, but it wouldn't serve their purpose of delivering a force north of the city.

He caught sight of the favour Shireen had granted him, hanging limp and lifeless around his arm. He leant down and kissed it before rushing back out. The ships in his squadron were beginning to turn. With a sudden feeling of dread he wondered if he had given them enough space, or whether they'd crush themselves against the cliff.

He put an arrow to his bow string and watched. "Half the archers, on this side, and man these scorpions, get men on the catapults!" He roared as they swung around. More Lannister ships were emerging. Not just cogs and galleys but merchantmen as well, they had been commandeered for war. They were acting as a shield, an attempt to prevent him from swinging around and cutting the fleet off. It wouldn't help them much, his best ships, and the _Fury_ especially, could trample over them like ants. But he had to target the warships, try to stop them before they got to his transports.

When they had completed half of their turn, he saw the Lannister vanguard connect with his flagging rear. The first ship with its ram, he recognised as _Lady's Shame._ He could only assume the other ramming ship was its sister vessel, _Lady of Silk. Lady's Shame's_ target was lucky, it had began turning to face its foe so the iron ram hit its rear, forcing the ship to turn faster. Glints of sunlight on metal arcing through the sky told him both vessels were grappling and pulling close for boarding. _Lady of Silk_ powered directly into the side of _Princess Rhaenys_. The vessel wasn't sheared in two, but one side of it was caved in heavily and it began to take on water and list. _Lady of Silk_ started backing water, ready to ram again, or choose a new target, he didn't know.

His fingers twitched near his bow string, but he wasn't close yet. He didn't think so, no, he'd wait to be certain before he shot. The scorpions were cranked backwards and the large, yard long bolts were placed in them, ready to shoot. They closed on the enemy. _Lady Silk_ sailed around the back of the sinking _Princess Rhaenys_ , making for the heart of the fleet. A stone from one of the catapults on _King Robert's Hammer_ landed just short of _Golden Arrowhead_ , whose captain replied with a volley of arrows, all falling short. Most of his fleet seemed to be pressing onwards to the north, they kept their formation. He was glad. If lords bannermen had been commanding them, most would no doubt be turning for the emerging battle. But his captains were veterans, many having served at Fair Isle and the Greyjoy Rebellion, and they had served his father for years, knowing the importance of obedience. The battle between _Lady's Shame_ and the ship he recognised as _Seapike_ was still raging, and was a mistake on the Lannister part. It had created a rock around which they now had to sail to hit his transports, and _Seapike's_ crew were putting up fierce resistance.

"Target the _Lion's Roar_!" He called, the hundred oar galley was steaming for the other side of _Seapike_ , it meant to sandwich it and swarm it from two sides. But to do that it had sailed too close to _Fury._ Three heavy scorpion bolts launched at three angles, as was common, they would determine the range they were at for the next volley. The first two fell short, but the third slammed into the deck. "Third angle!" He called and the other scorpions on that side of the ship aimed their bolts and launched.

His men cranked back the strings to load fresh bolts to attack the enemy. He could probably hit their ship from here, but what would be the point. What could one arrow do, he couldn't make out any of the men on that ship. But that was not true of _Seapike,_ where the crew still attempted to battle back the enemy. Their archers were on the other deck, and had free reign to shoot at his men. He raised his bow and loosed, his arrow soaring straight and true and lancing through his chest. His next arrow was already at his strings and he loosed another. One by one, he picked off the archers. "Prince!"

He turned. _Lion's Roar_ was backing water, the perfect chance to disrupt the enemy. "Oil in the catapults!" He roared. "Archers suppress the enemy on _Lady's Shame._ " A dozen men stepped up and raised their bows.

Two barrels of oil were launched into the air, twisting and turning. One of them landed in the sea, but the other landed on the deck of _Lion's Roar_ as it retreated. They kept moving. "Again!" He called. He wrapped cloth around the end of an arrow and held it over a fire. This time, when the barrels went flying, he raised his bow and shot, the flaming arrow planting into one of the barrels, which turned twice more before it exploded. Fire rained down on the deck of the ship, the other barrel being splattered with flames before exploding as well, more fire pouring onto the enemy ship, the oil already there being lit as well. The oars, which had been so ordered became like the flailing legs of a spider as the rowers rushed to get away from the flames. Several men, coated in flames, were leaping overboard into the salvation of the bay. The _Lion's Roar_ pushed onwards, the momentum of the rowers carrying it into the enemy fleet, whose ships turned to try and escape it. Eventually it would be pulled south-east by the current, but by then, his fleet would be passed and the blackened hulk would be carried into the Narrow Sea. The enemy seemed to have had enough of this sortie. He didn't know how many of his ships they had destroyed, but the _Lion's Roar_ was not the only vessel in flames and _Princess Rhaenys,_ now only a mast above the waves, was not the only one sinking. _King Robert's Hammer_ was leading them, backing water into the Rush, scorpions and Catapults still shooting at them, other ships passing by.

 _Antler Prow_ and _Devotion_ pounced on the enemy, _Antler Prow_ smashing into a merchantman, splintering the wood upon impact, while _Devotion_ pursued the _Queen Cersei_ through the water. "Hold shots," he called. "Preserve them for future battles." He watched the enemy retreat behind the Boom Chain, which was raised just in time to catch _Devotion._ The ship took several volleys of arrows before breaking free and backing water away from the chain. But less than five strokes of the oars later, and the vessel was sundered as a rock that could only have come from _King Robert's Hammer_ smashed through its hull and it sank to the bottom of the bay.

He shook his head, turning to the other side to see what damage had been done.

At least six warships of his had been destroyed in the opening skirmish. _Devotion, Princess Rhaenys_ and _Pure Wave,_ he could see were destroyed or gone. He saw two others taking on water rapidly and one was aflame. The crew may be battling the flames and the ship may be saved, he couldn't tell.

In return, they had taken two of the enemy warships. _Lion's Roar_ was a floating pyre, no life to it. While that ship had tried to sandwich the _Seapike,_ it hadn't worked and _Prayer_ had instead grappled on the other side of _Lady's Shame_ and turned the tide, even now the colours of King Joffrey were being pulled down. However, it was likely that _Seapike_ had lost much of its crew in the battle on the boats. When it pulled away, it was limping like it had been hamstringed.

But at least seven transports had been destroyed, burning or sinking, with the men on them, a price for his sin? Fellow ships were launching boats to try and save as many as possible, but he knew many would be dead. They had destroyed three or four of the enemy commandeered merchantmen, but they were Lannister shields for the warships, not vessels intended to be key to their battle plan.

"My Prince," he turned to find his Oarmaster waiting for him. "What are your orders?"

He glanced back at the boom chain, now fully raised, blocking the entrance to the Rush, dripping water like blood. "Turn us around, and bring us back in line with the fleet," he told him.

The Oarmaster nodded and gave out the calls.

He looked back to the Rush again, gripping the rails of the vessel until his knuckles turned white.

"Try that again, Lannisters," he whispered. "Next time I'll be ready for you. You won't catch me like that again."


	55. Book 2 Daenerys V

The torches shimmered brightly against the hammered metal of the wall sconces, filling the Queen's Ballroom with silvery light. Yet there was still darkness in that hall. Daenerys could see it in the pale eyes of Ser Ilyn Payne, who stood by the back door still as stone, taking neither food nor wine. She could hear it in Lord Gyles's racking cough, and the whispered voice of Osney Kettleblack when he slipped in to bring Cersei the tidings. Daenerys was finishing her broth when he came the first time, entering through the back. She glimpsed him talking to his brother Osfryd. Then he climbed the dais and knelt beside the high seat, smelling of horse, four long thin scratches on his cheek crusted with scabs, his hair falling down past his collar and into his eyes. For all his whispering, Daenerys could not help but hear. "Your Grace, Stannis Baratheon appears to be attempting to intimidate us brave defenders. He has his fleet assembled and they are sailing up the bay, as close to the city as they dare without getting close to your brother's boom chain. They know they cannot hope to cross his barrier, so they resort to petty tricks to try and scare us to surrender."

"Indeed?" Cersei asked, sipping at her wine. "And what is my brother's response?"

Osfryd bowed his head. "Your Grace, he has ordered the fleet to water, they are set to sail out and engage the traitor's fleet on the Blackwater."

"And my son? Loren hasn't put him on a ship has he?"

"The king went to Baelor's to get the High Septon's blessing. Now he's walking the walls with the Hand, telling the men to be brave, lifting their spirits as it were."

Dany pushed aside her bowl of broth. With the battle outside and the Queen not ten feet away, and her only hope of escape cut off, she had no appetite, but she was not alone. Lord Gyles coughed ten times for every swallow he gave. Lady Stokeworth was shivering on her bench, and the bride of a Lannister knight was weeping silently. Sansa got through far more of her own broth than Dany did, but even she pushed it aside after a while. The broth was soon taken away and replaced with a light salad. The knight's bride's weeping had grown too loud for Cersei, and she ordered Maester Franken to put her to sleep with some Dreamwine. "Tears," she muttered, holding out her empty cup for more wine. "The woman's weapon," she said to Sansa. "The gods see fit to fit me in with these helpless hens."

"But you invited them," Sansa reminded her.

The queen fixed her with a glare. Dany kept her head low _don't say anything, don't say anything, don't say anything_. As long as the Queen didn't see her, she would be safe from her ire.

The queen studied the wives, daughters, and mothers who filled the benches. "Of themselves the hens are nothing, but their cocks are important for one reason or another, and some may survive this battle. So it binds me to give their women my protection. If my brother should somehow manage to prevail, they will return to their husbands and fathers full of tales about how brave I was, how my courage inspired them and lifted their spirits, how I never doubted our victory even for a moment."

"And if we should lose?" Dany couldn't help but ask.

Cersei smiled. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? If we lose, and by some miracle my guards remain loyal then the Holdfast should be safe for a while. But more likely the men will murder each other, either to escape or to be the one who delivers me naked and in chains to Stannis Baratheon. But if the Keep should fall before Stannis can come to the gates... well..." She gestured to the others in the room. "These women had best prepare themselves for a bit of a rape, and of course one mustn't forget looting, maiming and murder." She fixed Dany with a glare. "And you shan't be spared either. Men desire the exotic, and you are the most exotic here. And Sansa here is also a pretty young thing. I think if we lose, you two will be in for a lively night. But don't think the old, fat and ugly will be spared. If we should lose, they will all be kept busy for a while, and half these women may be carrying a low born bastard by the time the men have spent themselves dry."

She pushed her salad away, untouched. That wouldn't happen, not to her. She would run high, like Ser Aron had told her high and fast, with Sansa to weather the storm to come, let the men find these other women, like hiding from a storm. She inched closer to the warmth of Sansa. They would be safe together.

The Queen seemed to have gotten bored of tormenting them, and neither she nor Sansa asked any more questions of her, they simply huddled together, linking their fingers. Blue Bard entertained them as the fool he was, able to elicit some laughter from the younger women. For the rest a singer came forth. He sang of Naerys and the Dragonknight, he sung of Jonquil and Florian, and some began to weep at the sadness of the songs. Sansa"s eyes grew moist but Dany felt little for these songs and tales, they were sad, but they would not bring her to tears. She was the last Dragon and she would remain strong.

Soon Ser Osfryd returned to the Keep. He claimed to come from the battle, but there were no fresh marks on him and his red cloak fluttered dirt free. "Your Grace, your brother was successful in his assault. We lost only two of our warships but the traitor Stannis lost twenty at least. Gold Cloaks are riding the streets proclaiming the victory for the people, they all cheer in name of his victory on the seas. The men on the walls are steeled and ready to battle on should it ever reach them. The sept is singing a hundred prayers for the deliverance of the day. The bells should be ringing out soon. But even in victory it seems we are plagued. Thieves tried to burgle the granary, your brother saw to them and a townhouse in the south was torched and looters took to the Street of Silver. Lord Jacelyn's gold cloaks moved to restore order swiftly and these troublemakers are brought to heel."

Cersei nodded. "And Joff?"

"Safe and sound, he watched what we could see of the battle with the rest of the men."

"Good. Go now, and bring me news as soon as there is any."

Ser Osfryd left the chamber swiftly. Cersei turned to them. "You see, there is nothing to fear, troublemakers are being dealt with, there is nothing to fear." Her voice dripped with more sarcasm than Dany had ever heard. "Of course there would be looters, and there will be more as long as the battle progresses. Jaime told me once that he only feels truly alive in battle and in bed, and for the rabble, looting is there battle, it completes them, it makes them feel like men. Go to the sept and you will see that the pious ones are the women, too weak to pick up swords and face their battles with blades in hand." She shook her head. "When we were little, Jaime and I were so much alike that even our lord father could not tell us apart. Sometimes as a lark we would dress in each other's clothes and spend a whole day each as the other. Yet even so, when Jaime was given his first sword, there was none for me. "What do I get?" I remember asking. We were so much alike, I could never understand why they treated us so differently. Jaime learned to fight with sword and lance and mace, while I was taught to smile and sing and please. He was heir to Casterly Rock, while I was to be sold to some stranger like a horse, to be ridden whenever my new owner liked, beaten whenever he liked, and cast aside in time for a younger filly. Jaime's lot was to be glory and power, while mine was birth and moonblood."

"But you were queen of all the Seven Kingdoms," Sansa said.

"When it comes to swords, a queen is only a woman after all."

She turned a vicious gaze upon Dany. It was a gaze that was hazy, like she didn't fully see Dany. "You know all of this could have been prevented if it weren't for your father," she swore.

"My father is dead," she whispered back. Her father's name was taboo here. It was a reminder of dark times and a past age.

"And only made folly while he was alive," Cersei sneered, setting her cup down at an odd angle so it rolled away into some corner, the last dregs of wine trickling leaving a trail of blood to follow to find it. "If he had only consented to marry me to your brother... Rhaegar was worthy of the crown, and I would have given him perfect children. We would be at peace in his reign. But no, he chose to marry her off to a weak Dornish princess and left me shamed. I married Robert in his place, but that sot could never be like that. If only Rhaegar had made his own choice. He would have picked me for certain. He saw my beauty and would have seen the Queen in me, and _you_ would be the brood mare."

"He wouldn't have," Dany replied. Cersei glared at her. "When my brother desired another woman he didn't turn to you. He looked to Lyanna Stark of the North. Even as a mistress you were passed over." Cersei smacked her, the sound ringing throughout the room. The women paused for a few seconds before looking away.

Cersei leant in. "Dragons may be made to be sluts and whores, but a lion is no man's mistress." She got to her feet. "Come with me. Both of you." She brought them over to the side of the ballroom, where a window looked out over the city. "I know of your treasons," she said simply. "I know that when you pray it is not for a Lannister victory."

"We pray for Joffrey," Sansa insisted.

"Because he treats you both so kindly?" Cersei asked. "I know you pray for Stannis, or your brother. Either way it makes no difference, Joff is king, so those prayers make you traitors. Look down."

They looked down to the moat of the holdfast, deep and filled with spikes, arcing up to the sky like the fangs of some great beast, ready to sallow the Red Keep whole. "You may wish to change your prayers. Both of you," she said, looking to Sansa. "Stannis may take this city, but he will not take me, nor you. Neither House Stark nor House Targaryen will have pleasure at the fall of House Lannister. If Stannis Baratheon takes this city and chooses to look for you, that is where he will find you."


	56. Book 2 Lyonel IV

This time there would be no failure, he had vowed. _Arrogant men make no mistakes, wise men learn from them_. His father had taught him that when he had been unable to catch a pirate ship on his first voyage at sea. He had stood by those words ever since.

This time he had arranged his fleet almost exactly in the reverse of the previous day. He had kept most of his warships on the inward flank of his fleet as the transports, with another two thousand men, sailed north. The attack on the transports yesterday had cost him nearly six hundred soldiers. His father had provided fewer men this day, spread more thinly amongst the transports so that a lost ship didn't mean so many lost men

"Keep rowing steady!" He ordered the _Fury_ as he kept watch on the Rush. Would the enemy try to attack again? They had to know he would be ready for a second assault.

His plan was sound, though the confidence of some of his captains was shaken. Several of them had suggested putting a strong force of warships to watch over the mouth of the Rush and allow complete freedom of movement for the Transports. But that would divide his fleet, and besides, if he watched over the mouth then the strength of numbers he possessed would be negated. Instead, he could now draw any naval assault out into the bay and wrap around them with two pincers, destroying and capturing the entire Lannister Fleet, clearing the way for any future action on the seas, be that him assaulting the Rush or transporting more soldiers to the north to join the thousands already there.

"My Prince! Lannister ships emerging from the Rush!"

He snapped his gaze to the Rush. Sure enough, the chain had been fully lowered once again and the Lannister ships were coming out to do battle. But not as they had before. The Lannister ships that came out last time had been headed by war galleys with rams and archers, backed up by the larger vessels. This time the vessels in the lead were being led by ramshackle junks, hulks and merchantmen, some of them must be crewed by the holiest men for the gods to be keeping them afloat. One even began sinking already, bubbling beneath the waters of the bay. "Turn us around!" He called out, and his Oarmaster repeated the order. "Send the signal for Davos and Saan to sweep in from north and south, the rest of us turn here. The transports and the rest of the escort carry on to the north!" He pulled out his bow, which he'd kept on him this time, not left behind in his cabin like some upjumped squire.

The enemy ships in the front line, the drifting hulks were fanning out, with only a few warships following on behind them, like handlers on their hounds. Most of the enemy fleet was striking out as one iron fist, once more targeting the rear of his fleet. He could already see the Lyseni war galleys under the pirate chief racing forwards to meet them, moving faster than any ship in the Royal Fleet. Likely he would claim any ships he could seize himself as reward for his unpaid service so far. "Move in!" He ordered and his squadron of ships moved to intercept the Lannister Fleet, this time there would be no failure.

The ramshackle enemy vessels were still coming, the hounds obeying the masters coming on behind. "Trample them," he ordered. "No stopping!"

His ships pressed on. If the Lannisters thought that this pitiful shield would protect them, they knew nothing. Then his drums were met by the sound of a great number of enemy horns, rolling over the waves and riding the wind. "Press on!" He ordered, he couldn't halt now.

The horn was answered by the warships handling the junks. Flaming arrows arced from the warships into the hounds they commanded and the fires spread.

He cursed. The way the flames were moving, rolling across the wooden hull and slithering like serpents up the masts, those ships had been coated in oil, and now fire ships were charging his line. "Aim the scorpions and catapults!" He ordered calmly. He couldn't lose his cool, those ships were only a danger if they could smash into his own, and at the right angle. They were in a bay, there was no wind to carry the flames further, it would rely entirely on contact to do that. He was impressed that a Lannister had thought to try and break his formation with fire ships, but whoever commanded was clearly not a veteran of naval combat. "Scorpions aim below the water line. Let those ships take on water."

One of the fire ships was splintered as it's deck swallowed a boulder from his catapults Most of it sinking below the water, the few planks that splintered off from the main hull drifted aimlessly. Two of the fire ships knocked against each other. A fire ship's crew would have abandoned the vessel long before it was set alight, and that lack of control was telling. "My Prince!" Cried a man from the catapult at the fore of the ship. "Fire ship, right ahead!"

He made his way to the fore and saw that the fire ship in question was a low decked merchantman. "Keep pressing forwards," he said. "Crush it into the bay." Had it been a different day, they would have obeyed him without question, trusting his instincts, but those instincts had led to yesterday's failure, so there was a little hesitation before the Oarmaster moved them to action. They closed on the fire ship that was spinning slowly, like a dancer. "Brace!" He ordered just before they crashed into it. He needn't have, a great splintering sound rent the air as the _Fury_ cleaved the fire ship in two, the flames being pushed away long before they could find a home on _Fury's_ hull.

He looked to either side. Several of his captains had turned to let the fire ships pass them and flounder in the water. A mistake, he now just had to hope none of them caught his transports. Others had done as he had, aimed for the fire ships and crushed them. Those vessels with iron rams seemed almost eager to engage, smashing the ships apart and pressing on.

He turned his gaze forwards. He was approaching the enemy warship, a two hundred oar galley he recognised as _Queen Cersei_ , the carved lion figurehead making it plain. "Hold the catapults," he ordered, "save the boulders for harder targets. Archers, scorpions, prepare to clear the deck."

He notched an arrow to his bow and moved to the side with his crew. He heard the grunt and grind of wooden decks smashing together and sliding alongside. "Draw!" He ordered as the ships aligned. "Loose!" _Fury_ had height over _Queen Cersei_. Size as well, his archers shot their arrows at any target they could see. The crew had nowhere to hide and a dozen were cut down on the first volley, the rest scattering. He pulled his bowstring back and shot an arrow at the oarsman, catching him in the heart and dropping him like a sack. This is his time. He notched arrow after arrow and, by the time the deck was mostly cleared, he had killed four directly, knocked one over the edge of the railings into the sea, and wounded another three. "Grapples!" He called. "Take that ship!"

The grapples were hurled over to the _Queen Cersei_ and the vessel was pulled in. To say they stormed the ship would be an overstatement, by the time his men had crossed to the enemy ship, the rest of their crew surrendered easily. "Disarm them," he ordered. "Raise my father's flag and make this ship ours." He assigned men from the _Fury_ to take the officer's positions and ensure the rowers knew their new loyalties, before returning to his flagship. "Cast off!" He called and the grapples were released as his ship continued to the battle.

But there was little need. The Lannisters had met his shield and bounced off it. Saan's ships were swarming in as his own squadrons rushed south to close the jaws. _King Robert's Hammer_ was forming the anchor of a retreat, it's catapults and scorpions working overtime to drive his ships away as the Lannister Fleet retreated. They backed water up behind the Boom Chain

"Call a halt, they're beaten." The drums and flags gave the signals that he ordered. "Speed back into formation, I want a tight shield around those transports."

He wanted to drop to his knees and offer his thanks to the gods, but he had to keep watching, watching everywhere, all the time, he could not allow another moment of laxity to bring tragedy.

But the tight vigil was kept and no more Lannister attacks took the fleet as they made their way to the landing site to the north.

()()()

"So the garrison has no idea that you're here?" He asked Lord Adrien Formont.

The broad lord of Standfast Keep shook his head. "No, we've established our own lookouts, as tight as a Braavosi banker, but they've seen nothing." Another boatload of spearmen disembarked , filing up the beach to set themselves up with the rest of the army gathering north of the city.

He nodded. He'd picked the landing site because it was so far north that the southern end of his fleet couldn't see King's Landing at all. Hopefully that put them far enough north that the Lannisters wouldn't know what they were doing, and it seemed to have worked. "Keep up the good work my lord. Soon enough we'll be ready to assault the city."

"I will my prince," he bowed in reply.

As Lord Adrien departed to continue overseeing the camp, Ser Davos approached him. "A far more successful journey, my prince," he commented as a boatload of archers filed up and past them. "Though at this rate we may take a week to get the entire army across the bay."

"Too long," Lyonel muttered, "we need more trips or more men in each boat, every day we delay the assault to allow time for this is another day that Lord Tywin could learn of our movements and bring his army down upon us from Harrenhal."

"We have options, my lord," Davos assured him gently.

Lyonel fixed the former smuggler with a stern eye. "Ser Davos you have always spoken true and from the heart to my father, I would have you do the same to me."

Ser Davos nodded. "My prince I know this bay like the back of my hand, so do many of the captains of your father's fleet. We could transport men across at night to double our journeys, and attacking out into the bay against a moving fleet is futile, we could bring another force over under cover of darkness, bring this force up to five thousand by the time dawn crests the horizon."

"And in a mere matter of days we could have the entire army here," Lyonel finished. "A fine idea. Bring me names, Ser Davos, captains with the ability to do this, I don't want a single vessel lost to a jutting rock when I return to the fleet the next day. Keep the lordlings out of this as well, I don't trust them with such a delicate task."

Davos nodded. "As you command, my prince."

Lyonel passed out orders to keep up the disembarking and returned to _Fury_ , slipping into his cabin and kneeling at the small wooden altar that he'd had brought onto it. He uttered thankful prayers to the gods that he was successful this day. Perhaps his sin hadn't been so great as to award the Lannisters total victory after all, perhaps it was just enough to be punished with the previous day's setbacks. That had to be correct. Hadn't it? He closed his eyes and tried to pray but the face of his sister swam before his eyes. He tightened his eyelids, pressing them together so tightly it almost hurt. However much he wanted her here he couldn't bring harm upon her pure soul. He shook his head fiercely, banishing any thoughts of his sister from them, this was the time for the gods, any other thought could lead to sin.


	57. Book 2 Loren VII

"Bring _Loyal Man_ to the quays!" He ordered. "Clear away anyone who can't help it." This excursion hadn"t had the success of the first. He had been watching from the walls. They had sunk two enemy warships and another two of the Lyseni sellsails, and lost three vessels of their own. His fire ships may have been able to catch some of the enemy ships, but he didn't know for certain, they were blocked from view by the cliffs. _Loyal Man_ wasn't the only ship that would need fixing, but it was listing badly and needed immediate care.

"My Lord," he turned to Ser Jacelyn. "The Hound and Ser Balon have returned." He nodded and returned to his horse. The fleet would have to handle itself for now. "Tell the captains to meet me inside the gate once the fleet is at anchor, and ensure that chain is raised and strong," he called back over his shoulder before racing back to the city to meet his top two commanders.

It was good that he had maintained a constant watch on Stannis Baratheon's host. When his fleet was out in the bay, apart from a few ships still under repair from the previous excursion, some of King Stannis' soldiers had rafted the Rush further upstream. Not many, and there was no general mobilisation to battle columns on the southern bank, so they had gone against orders. His first instinct had been to sweep in with his sellswords and knights and sweep them back into the Rush. But then he had seen their numbers and ordered the Hound and Ser Balon to lead a force of one thousand city watchmen, those raised by Cersei at the beginning of the war, against the new foe. They had the numbers on their side and were bolstered by some knights and guardsmen to solidify the line, but they were to do the bulk of the fighting. This way they would have some experience of battle, strengthening them if Stannis should cross with the rest of his army. If he got another chance like this, he would send the other green gold cloaks to get some experience of their own.

Several dozen gold cloaks had been killed, but the rest looked firmer, more sure of themselves. He approached the Hound and Ser Balon. The Hound had placed his helm on a barrel beside him and was looking disdainfully at the gold cloaks still filtering into the city by the King's Gate. Ser Balon was kneeling, holding his Morningstar by the chain and wiping blood from the spiked ball.

"Ser Balon, Sandor," he called, approaching them. "Any troubles?"

"None, my lord Hand," Balon replied. "We drove Lord Stannis" soldiers back into the rush. The men performed better than I expected. I think this has been good for them in the long term." The Hound just nodded at Ser Balon's comments.

He nodded. "Well done, get some rest, both of you. You've served well today. Did you do as I asked?"

This time the Hound answered. "Aye, we put the bodies back on the rafts and sent them back to Lord Stannis."

He walked among the gold cloaks who had returned from the sortie. It would have served best if Joff had been doing it himself, but the boy king could hardly stand to be with these men, praising them might be too much to ask, he would like as not insult them before praising them. So it was left to him to tell them they had done well. He clapped them on the shoulder, helped bandage a few wounds, passed around water and praised their skill and bravery, they had done well this day, and they needed to know that.

After a while of that, he returned to the River Gate, where the King stood on the walls in his armour, the rest of his Kingsguard about him. He saw Ser Aron organising some men carrying water through the streets to one side and singers playing songs for the men resting below the walls. The three Trebuchets stood under guard below the walls. Cersei had wanted to name them for herself, Joff and Tywin, but he had overruled her. He gave them names of heroes. The King Robert stood in the middle, with the Bold Barristan to the left and Arthur Dayne to the right. He hoped they would be inspiring and remind the city of Joff's father Robert. But he had underestimated the soldiers who had given them the inelegant name, "the Three Whores."

The trebuchets were standing still and silent. They were powerful, but he didn't want to waste a single boulder. A few might make it across the Rush, but Lord Stannis would simply pull his host back. But Joff wasn't happy about that. "Why did you send the dead men back across the Rush by raft. We could have used the Whores! Mother said I could."

 _She also said you could throw naked prisoners across using them as well_. Loren sighed. "Your Grace, there is no reason for us to use the Whores, it is possible that Lord Stannis doesn't know we have them yet. Why reveal it? Besides, I didn't see why we have to drag hundreds of corpses through the city. It would dishearten the men."

"Mother said-" the king began.

"Your mother isn't here, boy," he reminded the king. "And you may wish to stop bringing her up so much. King's shouldn't be advised so much by their mother. Aegon wasn't listening to his mother when he decided to take the Seven Kingdoms. He likely listened to able councillors who knew what they were talking about, not his mother." A lie, in most likelihood. Aegon the Conqueror ruled strongly and well, and almost certainly didn't plan his invasion with the help of others. But Joff was no Aegon the Conqueror, and would need all the advice... all the sound advice he could get.

"How long do I have to stand here?" Joff asked, humbled but still obstinate.

"You can take a few breaks," he assured the king. "But make sure you are seen by enough people to make them remember you are still here."

He grumbled and nodded. Loren left the king to go and see to the captains who were gathering below the gate.

"My Lord," said Captain Addam of _King Robert's Hammer_ and de-facto admiral of the Fleet since they didn't have a Master of Ships right now. He had served on the vessel in the Greyjoy Rebellion under Lord Stannis, but had never shown any inclination to rejoin the master of ships, and had proved his loyalty so far. The man would no doubt be receiving a knighthood along with the other captains when the battle was done, a lordship if Loren was to have any say in it. "You sent for us?"

The captains were all proven seamen, you could see it in their faces, and they all looked to him with Captain Addam. "I did," he confirmed. "I saw the battle today, it was not nearly as successful as yesterday, but still, I praise your work so far. You have all served ably."

"Thank you, Lord," Addam bowed his head in thanks.

"But a change of tactics is required. How well do you know the waters around the bay?"

They glanced at each other. "Rather well, my lord, though you sound like you may be about to ask something that may be beyond us."

"Beyond the Royal Fleet?" They lacked the arrogance he had seen in pirates in the east.

"Skilled captains know their limits, otherwise they'll be on the seabed before long," Addam confirmed.

Loren nodded. He liked the honesty that Addam was giving him. "Very well then, Addam, here is what I ask. Could you sail the bay at night?"

"At night?" Asked the captain of the _White Hart._ "That depends on where."

"I agree," said Addam. "We could sail the heart of the bay, but I am unsure of what you wish us to do out there at night. We know the bay no better than the captains of Lord Stannis' Fleet."

Loren nodded. There was no point in hiding his proposal. "The battles in the day are no longer helping us, we are not doing the damage we need to. Could you attack the fleet enemy in one savage night attack?"

They didn't look hopeful. "It wouldn't be easy," said the captain of the _White Hart_. "Just finding them would be a challenge in itself. Then there's the attack."

"Finding them shouldn't be impossible," Addam replied. "We know they anchor on Massey's Hook based on where they come from. There aren't any ports capable of housing such a fleet on the Hook, which means they're anchoring in open water. We'll be able to use their own defences against them."

"How so?" Loren asked.

"They'll have to light up the coast to prevent them sinking their own vessels, in the dark that should act as a beacon for us to find them. But I don't know how we'd attack. We signal each other with flags, and in the night we couldn't possibly see them."

"It could be done with fire ships," said another captain. "We find out where their fleet is anchored and then send in the fire ships while their crews are asleep."

"We don't have that many fire ships left," Loren reminded them. "Unless you want to contribute one of the warships to that, but I would hesitate. I want as many of these ships still available as possible."

Addam looked at the sky. "We have several hours yet until sundown," he noted. "And if the Baratheon fleet acts as it did yesterday, they'll be coming back before then. We'll draw up some plans, my lord Hand, and you can decide then whether you want us to sail."

He nodded. "Very good, go and do that, there are a few other matters to which I must attend."

They returned outside the city and Loren mounted his horse again. He rode to the north, the Dragon Gate specifically, where he could wait for Ser Gerold. The people moved out of the way of him and the knights at his back. Ser Jacelyn had men of the gold cloaks riding down the streets regularly to prevent any holdups. They passed a burned out baker that had been looted in the night, and many starving people of the city huddled against walls. One seller still making some money was selling fried rat. Probably better than old rotting rat, if nothing else. A man was standing by him with a club. He suspected the clubman got a rat or two for free in exchange for keeping away thieves and rioters.

At the north wall things were much less ordered than at the south. A few hundred Gold Cloaks were here, as were the near a thousand strong sellsword force, led by Tyrion's pet man, Bronn. He dismounted and scaled the wall to wait for Ser Gerold's return. Then he would have his answer. Was Stannis' Fleet trying to intimidate him into surrender, lure out his own ships, or did they have another purpose.

He didn't have to wait long before he saw the telltale banners on the horizon. Given the speed they were galloping to him. That didn't bode well. The gate rattled open as Gerold and his escort of twenty men rode into the city. "Ser Gerold," he yelled before the knight went riding too far into the city looking for him. The knight turned to him on his horse and dismounted, racing up to him.

"My lord," he bowed his head, apparently what he had to say was too urgent to engage in proper formalities. "They aren't just sailing north to try and scare us, or lure out the fleet. They are landing soldiers north of the city."

He paled. He hadn't prepared any defences north of the city. "How many?"

"Four thousand from yesterday, perhaps a little less. But if they bring the same number today..."

"Eight thousand," Loren muttered. That was a large enough force to take the city alone, even if the number was less than that, there was still a force north of the city that he couldn't hope to defeat conventionally. Even to hold them off in a siege would require many of the men on the south. If they attacked at the same time as men from the south...

He needed to thin them out, make them too scared or weak to attack the city. Or he could provoke them to attack now, while Stannis Baratheon's main force was on the southern bank, and focus his force to defeat them before Stannis crossed with the rest of his army. He needed unconventional warfare, and Tyrion had told him how Bronn had won the Trial by Combat in the Vale. "Bronn!" He called out and the sellsword looked up at him. He beckoned and the sellsword swaggered up to him.

"You called," he said.

Loren nodded. "How many sellswords are there in the city?"

"A thousand, more or less."

Loren glanced down at them. "Are they good?"

Bronn shrugged. "Not as good as me, but they can fight."

"Humour me and be honest," Loren said. "If I were to send them out of the city, how many would return?"

"Depends on what you offered us to return," Bronn said.

Loren nodded. He shouldn't have expected less. The Golden Company had set the bar too high for him when it came to sellswords. "There is a force of men, more than the sellswords, waiting north of here. I want you to lead the sellswords out, fight as skirmishers, attack the camp at night, harry them if they ever ride and kill off their scouts and foragers."

"And why should we do that?"

"Because I'll offer five silver stags for every surcoat or shield that can identify the enemy to us. I don't care about the quality, just proof of the kill."

"Heads are easier to carry," Bronn commented.

"And easier to remove from peasants with whom I have no conflict," Loren replied. Bronn grinned. "Will the sellswords ride for that?"

"Most of them, and the rest'll follow on any way. Any silver is better than none."

"Get them ready then," he said. "You'll go this evening."

Bronn mockingly bowed and departed. "My Lord," Gerold said, when Loren didn"t move.

"I need to meet with the fleet captains," he said, walk with me and tell me everything you saw in the camps. He had to get an attack against the enemy fleet before they moved Stannis' entire host north of the city where he could do nothing to stop them.


	58. Book 2 Lyonel V

"Is the fleet ready?" Lyonel asked Ser Davos.

"They are, my prince. They will move as soon as the boom is down."

Lyonel nodded. The Lannisters had had this battle the way they wanted it for too long. Hit and run techniques and an assault under cover of darkness, these worked in favour of their smaller fleet. No longer. Now they would take the entire Lannister fleet head on. True enough, inside the Rush, they would not be able to bring their full numbers to bear on the enemy, they could only float twenty ships abreast, but their momentum should be sufficient to carry them up the rush, smashing into the enemy. His first two lines were made up of ten lighter vessels each. Many of his nobles on his biggest warships had petitioned to be the hard fist that broke the enemy apart. But he"d shot them down. In order to counter his attack, the Lannisters would put their largest, most powerful ships in the front rank. His swifter vessels would dart around them and attack the lighter enemy vessels in the rear, then his heavier ships, led by his own vessel in the _Fury_ would board and seize the greatest enemy warships, pushing the Lannisters back up the Rush. When the mouth of the Rush was cleared and the enemy pushed all the way back down the throat of the enemy, then his rear vessels would send out the longboats, retrieve his father's host and land them on the northern bank, ready to take the city. If the quays were available, they could even land some of the bigger ships, but this commander knew what he was doing. It was likely that before they chain was broken they would sink some of their lesser vessels to block the Quays from them. If he had any left after the fire ship assault.

The memory of that left bile in his throat. They had come in the black of night and sent fire ships steaming towards his anchored vessels. Six ships, two commandeered ones, one of the Lyseni ships and three of his own warships, _Pride, Lord Steffon_ and _Humility_ had burned. Other ships were damaged as they steered away from the fire ships and collided with each other. No doubt the enemy hoped it would be more successful, it was an attack that seemed to have been planned hastily, all fire ships coming from one direction, rather than several at once, but it was yet another moment of his failure. This was his fleet, and he was losing it.

"And the men in the north?"

"Dale is getting ready to sail even now, my Prince."

He nodded. "Good, and the attack force?"

" _Sea Stag, Lady Cassanna, Prayer, Eternal Sentinel_ and five transports are ready to attack. _Lady Cassanna_ and _Prayer_ will provide support with archers while the longboats from the other vessels attack." He paused. "My prince... are you sure you wish to lead the attack yourself? There is no need."

"There is, Ser Davos," he replied. He said no more to the knight. So far it seemed that everything had been going against him. He had to see if the gods had determined that he should lose this battle. The assault on the tower was certain to succeed. He had four hundred determined soldiers, complete with aid from aboard the ships. Against him was a small garrison of perhaps fifty. He couldn't lose... unless the gods themselves intervened on behalf of the defenders. Would they? Was this to be his punishment? But if he was successful, then it would show him that the gods were not punishing them. "The attack will go ahead as planned, and I will lead it."

Ser Davos knew when he shouldn't speak further and held his tongue. Lyonel slipped his bow onto his back and climbed over the edge of the ship, moving down towards the skiff that would carry him and his attack force towards the tower. "Begin!" He called and the rowers flexed their muscles and began pulling them away from the warships and into the shallow waters.

The splashing of oars was all they could hear as they moved towards the ominous tower of stone , standing tall in the water like a spear. The first huge links of the chain dipped slipped into the water to the west before becoming obscured beneath the waves.

The first arrow shot through the air and plopped into the water, bobbing on the waves like a twing beside the first skiff. The rest soon followed. Arrow after arrow shot from every window towards the oncoming attack boats. "Faster!" He ordered and the rowers sped up, those that weren't rowing held their shields high to cover their faces from incoming arrows. He notched an arrow to his bow and took several deep breaths, watching the tower intently, they had been rapidly thrown up, not castles that had been developed and upgraded over years and centuries. There were weaknesses, there had to be, something he could exploit. There! The arrow slits, they weren't slits at all, slim and thin, they were windows, and wide enough for him to exploit. He waited until he identified one where arrows were coming from. He raised his bow and loosed the arrow, notching another immediately as it slid through the air and in through the roughly hewn gap in the tower.

The rower to his right was hit by a crossbow bolt in the chest and the entire boat jerked as the oar beats were suddenly made uneven. "Take that oar!" He commanded and one of his men hauled the body overboard and took his place. Thankfully his boat was least targeted, two had already set alight on the stony ground at the base of the tower and were racing for cover under a hail of arrows and bolts.

His boat juddered to a halt against the stones and he leapt out, his men at arms following closely, the rowers scrambling over the edge after them. By now the first boatloads had crossed a small moat towards the tower, many foes lying fallen about the tower. At the base of the tower they were crowded around the door, two of them hacking at it with longaxes while the rest held their shields up against the steady enemy assault. "Forward, to the tower!" They charged forwards, none concerned about their allies, only intent on reaching the base of the tower where they could expect a little reprieve from the attacks from above. The door was starting to splinter under the hammering of axes. He notched another arrow and waited, looking up at the window above. When a crossbow stuck out, he raised his bow and loosed, the arrow flying up and punching through the loading arm of the weapon, rendering it useless.

Finally, with a crack, the door sundered apart. "For King Stannis!" He roared.

"King Stannis!" His men replied and forced their way into the tower.

The spiralling staircase was hard to fight up, but his men had come prepared. The path up was barely wide enough for two people to pass, so the two men at the front had been given tower shields, blocking any attack from coming down at them, while the men behind held spears in two hands to range beyond the shield and land a killing blow where possible. Slowly but steadily they forced their way up the tower. Every time they came to a side room four or five men from behind the spearmen would break off and clear it of Lannister opposition. By the time they had reached the top, the last two dozen Lannister soldiers had lain down their arms and surrendered.

"My Prince," Ser Ondrew bowed to him at the top of the tower, where the winch for the great chain was operated from.

"How many men did we lose?"

"A hundred dead, another hundred wounded, most can be patched up to join the main battle, some need more treatment though."

He nodded. "See that they get it, they fought well today."

"My Prince," he bowed again. "On your word we can ruin the winch, keep the chain down until repaired. And what do we do with the prisoners?"

He glanced at the window, the few survivors from the Lannister soldiers who had actually fought like lions were being held fast. "Ensure they are treated well, I want none of them being thrown overboard when we get back to the fleet, understand?"

He nodded. "Of course, my prince."

"Good, then I should get back to the ships, the battle won't win itself, and the Lannisters will have noticed this commotion, we need to give them as little time to prepare as possible."

He left Ser Ondrew to deal with business at the tower and boarded the first ship back to his flagship. On the way there he closed his eyes and gave a silent prayer, thanking the gods for the victory. He was doing something right, he knew it, the gods were on their side, if not why let them in to attack the Lannisters in the first place. No, the gods were with them.

When he swung over the gunwales he was met by Marric. "Victory my lord?"

He nodded. "If the gods remain with us, only the first of the day. Are the ships ready?"

"They are," Marric said.

"Then there's no time to waste, send out the signal, I want the fleet moving before the Lannisters have too much time to prepare."

As Marric moved to give the order, he made his way to the back of the ship, past bundles of arrows and racks of scorpion bolts. When he got there he let a smile grace his features as he looked over his fleet. A forest of masts and sails stretched out far beyond what he could see, warships with hardened crews standing to attention on the decks, their flags fluttering in the air and the marines on board ready to do battle in the waters of the rush. Beyond them he could just make out the tell tale signs of wide bottomed transport ships, many crowded with the first wave of soldiers to land on the north bank of the river with more ready to turn south and collect his father's army. They would unfold like a paper rose made for a lover, and they would release the scent of victory into the air, and they would all breathe deeply by the end of the day.

The drums beat out across the waves as the ships advanced, the transports from behind were lagging a little, the weight or armoured spearmen and knights who would be the first to disembark and engage the enemy. The lordlings and their retinues would be a solid toehold on the northern bank to cover the crossing by the main force of his father's host, and also was an easy way to keep those with no experience of warfare on the waves from command of his ships - few lords could resist the lure of first blood. Lyonel knew that his place was at the prow of the ship, not the rear, so he tore his eyes away from his fleet and moved to direct the attack.

Beyond the Rush he saw it all. His enemy's fleet, the bees that had stung him so repeatedly were gathering and readying themselves to meet him in the rush, the black Baratheon Stag that the Lannisters had usurped flew from their masts. He glanced up at his own sails. His father's new sigil, the red heart was everywhere, but the small black stag imprisoned on the flames was barely visible from the very ship it flew from, let alone the wall. Robert was beloved, flying his banner might bring them loyalists, this new banner would only serve to turn men against them. But no matter, once they were victorious, people would remember who the true Baratheons were.

"Keep pushing, double speed on the oars, we need to drive their fleet as far upstream as possible, clear the Rush!" He ordered. Marric relayed them to the oars and they rose and fell harder and faster.

On the south bank his father's army was in a flurry of action. Thousands of men were forming into ranks and columns beneath hundreds of streaming banners while others dragged rafts down to the shore to load up the second wave of soldiers to support those coming from the fleet. He could almost see the agitation from the wait for the battle. They had seen their fellows shipped off north of the city to prepare to attack it while they were left behind. Now they had to watch as the fleet too the first bite out of the enemy. "Ready arms!" He ordered as they slid into the rush. The scorpions were swivelled to the front of the ship and the catapults cranked low and loaded with heavy stones. "Launch!"

With a great thrum scorpion bolts and boulders were hurled towards the enemy fleet as the battle on the Rush began.


	59. Book 2 Loren VIII

_Chromitez: That's the kind of review that really keeps me wanting to write this story. Thanks so much!_

* * *

His fleet had lost the Rush. His flagship, _King Robert's Hammer,_ had been boarded from two sides and taken, the twinned lion and stag pulled down. But the other vessels were also succumbing. Several were drifting beneath the water, the commandeered ships were being sunk, boarded, trampled or were pulling down their own banners in surrender. The last few loyal vessels were retreating west along the Rush as the majority of the enemy ships began to pursue them. _Good_ , he thought. _Keep pulling them away, give me more time here_. Stannis' host was prepared for battle. They were lined up in columns, banners fluttering, the sun glinting off steel tipped lances and lacquered breastplates. His fingers gripped the wall tightly. "This is it," he muttered. "Ready the Whores!" He called. The men cheered as they began loading the barrels onto the trebuchets. He now had to make the journey as perilous as possible for the Baratheon host. "Archers, notch arrows!" His men put their arrows to their bows, all tipped with flame.

"What about me?" His king asked. The boy was part terrified, part exhilarated, and it would likely remain that way as long as the wall was not under threat.

"Stay by the arrow slits," he said. "And get that crossbow ready, greet your uncle's men with it."

Joff nodded gleefully and picked up his crossbow. Loren turned to Ser Mandon. "Make sure he keeps his head down, the last thing we need is the king with an arrow through his face." He marched along the wall, not looking at the Kingsguard or the king. Men were mounting horses by the gates to the city, two great parties led by Ser Balon and the Hound, hundreds of men, knights and squires ready to harry the enemy as they came ashore. These were his best hope of stopping Stannis now that the Rush had fallen. He had to hammer the longboats, delay them as long as possible before bringing his full strength to bear on the enemy approaching from the north. This battle would not end in a total Lannister victory, but he could make Stannis retreat and that would be enough.

Several of Stannis' ships from the rear of his fleet were turning now, most heading for the southern bank to pick up some of Baratheon's men, but a few came close to the city, skiffs were being lowered, archers and spearmen on board to land on the northern bank.

"Lord Loren! The Whore's are ready."

"Archers draw. Release the Catapults!" He roared at the top of his voice. With cheers, the three trebuchets sent their barrels high into the air, twisting and turning, flailing as they rose. "Archers loose!" He called and an arc of flaming arrows soared like phoenixes into the sky. He hoped he had timed it right. He had. All three barrels were struck by at least one arrow, the others falling down onto the beach, some in the Rush itself. The barrels continued to spin and turn, but then the first of them exploded in a great green flash. He blinked out the afterimage burned onto his eyes and watched at lapping tongued of great green flame rained down on the Rush. The battle on the Rush had left many floating hulks of most commandeered ships and the fires caught several of these as they travelled along the disrupted currents of water, spinning lazily. The second barrel wasn't so lucky, the flames landed on the open water. They didn't extinguish, they floated on the water like puddles of liquid emerald, burning brightly. Like slugs and barnacles, the flames might latch onto ships that passed by. Larger vessels might push them underwater where, completely submerged, they would be snuffed out. But longboats and skiffs would be devastated were they to pick up the flames. The third barrel was the luckiest of them all, it exploded right over one of Stannis Baratheon's ships, the flames raining down on rigging and mast and sail, sending them up in flame. That one made the men on the wall cheer. "Load the trebuchets again," he ordered.

Still they slunk across the Rush like hounds of war, the first boats packed to bursting with men at arms and spearmen. "Archers, not the rush, aim for the men, weaken them for the charge! Gates, open!"

His archers loosed their arrows at a lower angle, the shafts flying straight and true towards the nearest boats. He saw a shaft catch an armoured man in the shoulder, it bounced off but the man fell, flailing into the Rush.

Right now his fleet was still peeling west, pulling eight of every ten ships from Stannis' fleet with them in a desperate pursuit. Whoever was commanding that fleet had not tasted command before, if he had, he would likely well have known to turn his ships around, use perhaps twenty to form and unbreakable wall for the rest of his fleet, then used the rest to rush Stannis' army across the river. The battle would have been over in hours. But those ships would return, he had to make a bloody ruin of what he could before they did.

With a great roar and blaring trumpets, two columns of riders charged out of the gates, his two main war parties led by the Hound and Ser Balon. He had one left in reserve, commanded by Ser Gerold, but until they were needed, he wouldn't commit them. "We must break each one of them, one successful landing will give Stannis the beach."

"My Lord, enemy forces attack the north gates!"

"Shit it all!" He cursed, turning his attention from the battle outside. "Are they not dealing with it there?"

The messenger was red faced on top of his horse. "Half the sellswords flatly refuse to go and attack them, the rest won't go alone!"

He slammed his armoured fist into the stone of the wall. "Gerold, you have command here, commit if necessary, if not, hold back! Ser Jacelyn, I need your gold cloaks, one in three, guardsmen, mount up!"

The men followed his commands, Jacelyn gathering a large contingent of mostly green gold cloaks to join him while his personal guard moved to their horses.

He had little time so set off before they were fully ready, they would have to keep up as best they could.

They met no resistance along the streets, he'd ordered them kept clear to allow his men to get swiftly where they needed to go. The sounds of battle died away to the south but were replaced by the same from the north.

Just inside the Dragon Gate a battle raged. _It's over, they're inside_. But no, he saw that no banners flew and the gate itself was still shut, the archers on the walls still loosing arrows at the outside. The sellswords were fighting within the city walls. "Men, forward, break this up!"

His men charged in as lions among sheep, the sellswords who had been fighting with fists broke apart and were caught by the gold cloaks, forced to the ground and held fast, those that had drawn steel attempted to fight and were cut down, at least a score of them, four gold cloaks and two of his guardsmen lay dead or dying in the streets, but order had been restored, the rest of them submitted.

He pulled his horse up before the sellswords held fast by his gold cloaks. "What in the name of the gods happened here?"

"Some of them thought we couldn't win," one sellsword said, nodding at the corpses over the knife at his throat. "We disagreed, they decided to defect, and we all drew our swords."

Damn and shit. He knew the sellswords would be fickle, but they were also among his best fighters. He needed them, but he couldn't let them threaten a gate like this again. "Split them into three equal groups," he commanded his men, dismounting his horse and scaling the wall. Thankfully Lord Stannis' northern commander was coming slowly. They had fashioned a crude ram from a tree trunk but it lay discarded just south of the clusters of houses, bodies pincushioned with arrows around it. Hendry Waters, commander of the Dragon Gate, sent a hail of arrows out at anyone who attempted to retrieve it and advance again. "Good work men," he told them, walking the wall. "How are you doing for arrows?"

Hendry glanced at him. "We have plenty for now, my lord at this rate the arrows can last until dark, but with... that," he jerked his head back at the bloody mess beneath the gate, "I'm not sure if _we_ can last that long."

He nodded grimly. "Don't worry, I'm taking them with me and leaving you more gold cloaks. They're green, but not half as likely to betray you."

"Better them than the sellswords, thank you, my lord."

"Lord Loren!" He turned to look down to where another messenger was riding up to the wall, or was it the same one as before? "The enemy advance in the south, we need you!"

"Hell's teeth, captain, keep it up." He took the steps two at a time and pulled himself onto his horse. He pointed at two of the groups of sellswords. "You miserable lot are coming with me, the rest of you, stay here, gold cloaks, you too, captain Hendry will see to you."

He put his spurs to his horse and raced back to the south.

Back at the south men were clustered beneath the walls, many panting with spent energy. On the walls archers were crying out for arrows and spears. "Ladders!" He heard one cry. He saw his men whimpering in fear, this was a lost battle to them. He dismounts and rushes up the wall. Still things held, a few toeholds had been made by the Baratheons, but his men had thrown the rest into the sea, the cries were premature, Ser Balon charged, white cloak gleaming and Morningstar flailing as he tore through a single file of infantry trying to carry a ladder to the walls. On the opposite banks rank upon rank of Stannis' infantry were waiting to be boarded onto the boats and ferried across the Rush, while more wildfire carpeted the river itself, making the journey all the more perilous.

He let out a slight breath, the men here still had things under control, they hadn't needed to rush to him, Gerold should have been able to handle them, why had they rushed across the city?"

"Where is Gerold?" He demanded of anyone who would listen. He may well need the third sortie to launch at this rate.

"The enemy landed west of the city," one of his men said. "Several hundred men attacked the King's Gate and a ram was brought up as well, Ser Gerold went to repel them with his mounted strength."

He nodded, good, the Kings Gate was directly down the river street, if the enemy had broken through there they'd have a straight path to him and this position. "Get the men back on the walls once they've rested."

"My lord... they may not come."

"What?"

It was his squire who spoke. "My lord, not all men like the taste of battle, we must let them vomit it out before sending them back again."

"Don't quote me at me boy, there is a time for that, but not when our backs are to our own bloody walls."

One of his gold cloak officers spoke up. "My lord, they have lost their fire, it left them when the king... he..."

"What about Joffrey?" Then a dread feeling crawled up his spine. _He was here, right here!_ He glanced up and down the line, desperate to catch sight of the twin lion-stag banner, or the white cloak of the Kingsguard. "Where is he?" He whispered. Then he roared, "where is the King!?"


	60. Book 2 Lyonel VI

The Rush was theirs. He had won it for his father.

The Lannister fleet had led the on a merry chase up the Rush. Retreating further and further from the city. He kept pursuing them. There were more than enough ships left behind to shuttle his father's army across the rush, he could keep the enemy from swooping on their flank.

They had taken all but one of the enemy ships. The last ship opposing them was _King Robert's Hammer,_ the largest warship in the fleet, larger even than the _Fury_. It had tried to anchor itself with the warships _Lucky_ and _Bright Star_ , but they were only a hundred oars each, and _Lucky_ was floundering in the water, listing perilously to one side, it was likely not long for the water anyhow.

The oarsmen were still pulling, moving them forwards. His father's vessel, the _Fury_ could match King Robert's Hammer head on. Loosing that vessel would be a loss, claiming it would be a worthy prize for father. "Move on the Hammer!" He called out. "Ready weapons!" He notched an arrow to his bow. "Archers, with me, everyone else, draw swords!"

They rowed on the Hammer, drawing closer with every beat of the drums, with every pull of the oarsmen. He raised his bow and loosed his arrow at the nearest enemy crewman, the arrow punching through his chest.

His archers released their arrows as well, most slamming into the wooden vessel, though a few found their marks on men. An arc of shafts flew back at them in reply, but every one fell short.

As they got closer, the men readied their grapples. This matter would be sorted in ship to ship combat.

"Now!" He roared, when they were within range, the grapples flying through the air as the enemy's did the same. Two clashed and fell like stoned crows into the water, their hurlers pulling them back up to try again. "Archers ready. Shield us as we cross." He took up his mace and gave it a few practice swings, for it would not do for the captain to stay behind. The weight felt good. He slid his pot helm over his head. Visors were good against archers, but in close combat you wanted to be able to see, and on a ship, it could be fatal to do otherwise.

He crouched bellow the gunwales with the rest of his boarders, clutching spears, axes, mace and swords. They heard the low loud thump of hull against hull, like a great boom of thunder over the waves. When the boarding bridges were lowered, he gave the order. "Charge! For King Stannis!" The first to cross the bridge bore the heaviest of weapons, large two handed battle axes, and long greatswords of dark steel. They rushed over the boarding bridges like crazed berserkers, leaping off the bridges onto the deck of the Hammer, raining down blows that could have split planks. Lyonel himself led the main force across the bridges. The enemy tried to board themselves, but his archers saw to them before they could threaten his father's vessel. His fist wave had cleared a safe area around the bridge, but their weapons were unwieldy, and on the rolling deck of a ship, they could be fatal. Now it was up to him and these men.

"KING STANNIS!" He roared, charging forwards. He met the first foeman of the day, a lanky youth with an axe in one hand. He ducked under the swing of the axe and used his mace to trip him up. He brought the mace around and sank it into the enemy's chest, feeling ribs shatter and flesh give way to the steel. He felt a blow across his back, and yelled in pain, rolling away. Another enemy had struck across his back with a sword, the metal grating on his mail. He raised his mace and checked the next strike with it, pushing himself onto the attack. He rained four blows on the enemy, feeling his stony skin crack and flex as he pressed his attack.

The enemy retreated under his onslaught towards the other side of the ship. Lyonel followed him wherever he went. He brought his mace down on the enemy, who caught his strike with the sword. He used his strength to push down. A flash of blue and he was blinded. He tasted the cool sweetness of water and fell to the ground, gasping. Suddenly blinded, he flailed madly, swinging his mace around to keep all away from him while he blinked the water from his eyes.

His arm caught as a foeman blocked his mace and stepped closer. Lyonel dropped his weapon and seized him.

"Stop, my Prince!" The man he had seized called and he felt a cloth drag across his face, taking the water from his eyes. The man he had seized was one of his own. The enemy crew had put up resistance, but it was now broken. A few fanatics holding out, but it would not be enough. "The battle is won."

He released the man. "Yes... good... thank you," he said, looking away in shame. He had nearly harmed one of his own crew. He looked for his mace, which had rolled away along to the gunwales. He looked around, the man who had attacked him was on the ground with a dagger in one side and blood spilling from his lips. His body was by a water barrel. He felt his face flush. His foe had lured him to that barrel specifically to blind him, and like a beast to bait, he had followed blindly. "Bind those who refused to surrender, and the officers, replace them with some of our own. And take down that disgusting flag."

"At once, my prince," his crewman said.

"Turn the ships around as well, it is time we returned to the city." A look east told him that the city was out of sight. They had pursued the enemy further than he had thought. They had to be far away now. Perhaps an hour's fast ride, maybe two. Luckily, ships moved faster than horses.

Back on his own ship they separated from the Hammer and began to turn, the rest of the ships that had followed him doing the same.

"My Prince," one of his men called to him. "There's something coming."

"More ships?" He asked heading over as they began rowing east, towards his father's army.

The man shook his head. "I'm not sure what it is, but it's not on the water, it's on the banks."

Lyonel squinted to the west. There was a shimmer in the air, like often happened on a summer's day, but it was glinting and fluttering, and it was too cold on this autumn day for such a shimmer. "Order the rest of the ships forward, tell them to begin without us. Oarsmen, back water, we'll see what's happening. Archers notch your arrows, and man the scorpions." His men hastened to their position as they started rowing backwards to see what was coming.

The shimmer cleared up as they approached, and his own ships began to make their way slowly back towards father's army. It was no haze of heat and water, instead one of dust it seemed. And the glints were made not from the sun reflecting off water, but steel.

His heart caught in his chest. On both sides of the river there was an army. What was this? "No," he whispered. The army on the north bank, the same side of the river as King's Landing, was marching under a lion banner, golden on a field of blood. The Lannisters were coming to relieve the city. He took deep breaths. It was okay, they were still half a day away to ride. He was on a ship, and had the current of the river; he could make it back well before they arrived, and get father's army ready. The Lannister column was headed by a huge force of armoured knights, with war lances held tall in their hands, and full plate mail covering their bodies, perhaps five thousand men in total, with three or four times that number following on behind on foot. Their legs were working hard, this wasn't just a march, it was a forced march. Even better, the Lannister foot would be tired... although his father's army had already been fighting a battle.

But who was coming on the other bank of the river? He rushed to the other side of the ship.

Roses. Roses everywhere. Roses of gold on fields of green fluttered above the Tyrell host. His lips curled into a snarl. So, they would side with two traitors would they? This time they would not be forgiven, when his father defeated them, they would be stripped of their lands. He was sure of it.

Then his heart froze. "Impossible," he whispered. "It can't be."

The battle was lost. The gods themselves had ruled against them. His sin had been that great? That they would make him think that they had victory, only to take it away from them there and then? All he had done, he had done for father, to ensure that the rightful, gods-given king sat the Iron Throne.

"I killed you," he whispered. He had done it to prevent a battle. A battle which they may not have won. One life against thousands. Against his father's. Against his sister's! Did they not see that? Yet they had risen him to life again. The Tyrells were attacking, and they were led by Renly Baratheon. The uncle he had slain.

"My Prince!" The voice was a distant echo, carried across an ocean of shades. Were there any knights in the army at all, were they the steel clad ghosts of the men he had killed before. Was the Targaryen Prince there? Were the pirates he had killed before? Were they all there, gilded in holy steel to bring holy retribution upon him for his sin. "My Prince?!"

He didn't respond. He felt his heart harden in his chest, his father's face, stern and strong, wearing the crown that was his by right.

He notched an arrow to his bow, taking breaths to steady himself. Then he drew his bow and shot his arrow at his uncle. _I killed you once, I can do it again_. But what could an arrow do against a shade? The shaft seemed to pass through him, and all it did was make his uncle look his way.

 _One more time_ , he thought, notching another arrow to his bow. He calmed himself, steadying his feet and relaxing his limbs. _"Come back to me"_ he heard Shireen"s voice break through all distractions, all sounds of battle and war. _"And be my brother again_." He drew and released his arrow. This time, the shaft flew straight and true, punching into the head of the horse his shade-uncle was riding and making it rear up, throwing him to the ground.

In an instant, everything snapped back to normal. The Tyrell and Lannister hosts were backing away from the rush as arrows, bolts and stones were shot at them from the ships. Knights were moving away the fastest, their steeds carrying them. A look told him that his shade-uncle was regaining his saddle, but he held no power over him anymore. He was no shade, no shade could be harmed by a mortal arrow. Even so, the army descending on them was vast, tens of thousands on either side of the bank. Their army had been divided by the crossing, unless... had his father crossed with his entire host by now? No, he'd taken the ships, those that should have been transports to pursue the Lannistes, he couldn't have cossed yet, it wasn't possible. "Back Water!" He roared. "Back water now! Get me back to the city!" He had the current of the river flowing with him, and he had three hundred oarsmen trained and drilled to work together. He could make it before the army if they moved fast and the enemy stayed at a march. "Beat the drums and bring us back to the King... the one true King."

They had the current of the Rush with them and the oarsmen were veteran sailors. The enemy had been disrupted by the attack and were still reorganising, as well as fending off the attacks from the ships behind him. They pulled ahead, rushing back towards the city. But even as he looked back the enemy horsemen were charging forwards, the footmen rushing on behind, even if he got to father before them it wouldn't be by much.

If they were in a sept he would have dropped to his knees to pray that his father had been able to cross the rush entirely. But he would have to make do with hoping... hope... did he really have to resort to hope?

But no hope could help him. When they pulled within sight of the city, he saw that the lion banners still flew from the walls. His ships were swarming over the wrecks of the Lannister vessels crewing them with loyal men and taking them over. The fools. They should have been helping father cross the Rush. The Longboats were trying to avoid floating green fire on the water, slowing them down, and more than one charred husk also blocked the way.

The gods may not have punished his father with shades, but defeat, that was still theirs, the army was split evenly, if anything, most of it remained on the southern bank.

"Prepare a longboat," he said. "I must get to father."

The royal yellow banner with it's flaming heart was still on the southern bank, as he expected, in a place where King Stannis could oversee the battle. His men rowed the boat with all haste, nearly crashing into another one taking men across the water, but he was able to land on the southern bank. So many men were still here, and some tried to pour into the boat that had just landed. But his men rowed out to wait for him. He had to push his way through the men at arms and knights and footmen who had yet to make the crossing. They were like dogs at the slips, the battle so close yet so far, and all eager for but a taste of the glory. He had to force his way past them, so many shouting encouragement across the water or cheering as a fresh longboat arrived on the southern bank to gather them up for the crossing. He pushed past a gaggle of men at arms in Estermont livery and reached his father, sat stern and tall upon his horse in grey plate mail, watching the battle intently.

"Father!" He called, breaking through the men and reaching him. His father looked shocked to see him there, it wasn't often one saw Stannis Baratheon caught off guard, but he had done so.

"Lyonel?" He asked over the din of battle. "What are you doing here?"

He ran the last few steps. "Father, you have to retreat. There are enemies coming, from the west."

"What are you talking about?" Stannis asked.

Lyonel gritted his teeth. _Don"t be stubborn, not now father_. "The Lannisters and Tyrells, they are coming on our flank, from the west and we can't stop them."

Stannis looked him in the eye for a second. "How many?"

"What?"

"How many were there?"

Lyonel shook his head. Did his father not understand, they had to retreat. "Thousands," he replied. "Tens of thousands, on both banks of the river, father, with the army divided you can't win this battle. You must retreat."

Stannis' jaw was clenched hard. "No," he said.

"Father!"

"No, I will _not_ be the King who Ran, I will not run away, not when I am so close, we will stand and fight."

"Father!" His voice was beginning to crack. "Please, I'm telling you we cannot win, there are too many."

"We fight!" He said. "I will not be denied what is mine by rights, not by anyone!"

"Father!" He pleaded. He bit his tongue to stop himself blurting out that Renly's shade was coming for them as well, his father was not a faithful man, it wouldn't make him listen.

"Your Grace!" They both looked up, a bedraggled outrider was approaching them, spurring his horse onewards. "There is a huge force descending on our flank, and even more on the other side of the river. They'll be here shortly."

Stannis looked over his army. Then froze, his eyes narrowing. Lyonel followed his gaze and saw what had caught his father's attention, on the north bank of the river a dust cloud was gathering, the king of dust that only an army could kick up.

"No," he muttered. "NO!" His father roared. "Not now! Not when I'm so close."

"Alert the army," Lyonel ordered the rider. He turned to his father. "Father, please, this battle is unwinnable. Retreat while you can."

"No," his voice was breaking as well. He was in sight of his goal and the recognition that he deserved, but now he had to retreat. "I can't, not now... not now."

"Please, father. There will be another time, another place, but not here, not now, not with your army divided and scattered. Please father, I'm begging you."

His father looked longingly at the city that should have been his. "Turn the army around." He said finally. "We will make a fighting retreat back to Storm's End."

"At once father," Lyonel said, his heart lifting. They would survive this day, they would win, they would be victorious.

"Lyonel!" He turned back to his father and king. "Half my army has crossed the river. Save them. The fleet is yours."

"I will father, I just need you to tell the boats to pick men up rather than drop them off."

Stannis Baratheon nodded. "Go now, save the men... we will need every one of them."

He nodded and rushed to the shore. He had to save the men on the north bank before the Lion swallowed them whole.

The battle was lost... he had lost it for his father.


	61. Book 2 Loren IX

"They're almost through the King's Gate Lord Loren!"

"Ladders are at the walls in the south!"

"A ram is approaching the Lion's Gate!"

"Fires block the Street of Steel!"

"The Muddy Way is blocked by peasants!"

"The men at the crossroads have abandoned their posts!"

It was all falling apart. He was about to lose the city. The last of his sorties were pulling back inside the city at the return of the Baratheon Fleet. Ser Balon's had lost more than half it's men, and the Hound fared even worse, having to cut through more enemies to get back inside the city.

All around him gold cloaks were asking where the king was, why wasn't he here to help them?

They must fight, he knew that much, if he could get the gold cloaks fighting, the battle would continue, no knight worth his spurs, no warrior worth his sword could consider fleeing the field while green men stood their ground.

"Enemy on the walls!" A voice cried from the west.

"Shit!" He cursed. The wailing of men in the thick of the slaughter were getting closer by every heartbeat. One man dropped his spear, another sat down on a barrel and put his head between his legs.

"They're getting closer!"

"We're all going to die!"

"Not if you kill them first!" He roared, stepping onto the first step up to the battlements. "If you want to protect your homes and loved ones, if you want to hold this place and say that you stood taller than the coward of a king who abandoned you, then get up on those walls, fight with me and kill the whoresons who want to take your city!" He saw a few men get to their feet and follow him, then more, soon he had two dozen followers. It would be enough, the rest would follow out of loyalty or shame.

The wall was slick with mud and bloody corpses, a fallen gold cloak lay against the wall, an arrow sticking from his chest. This was what they were bringing to the city, mood from the riverbank and blood from his men. He gripped his sword tighter. Up ahead Lord Stannis' forces were swarming off ladders, fighting the last of the desperate archers on the walls, the men at arms spreading out with sword and shield as archers strung their bows to start raining death down from the walls. "HOME!" He roared as they charged. He tucked in his shoulder and smashed past two men at arms, driving his sword through the leather armour of an archer, ripping through the guts beneath. He pushed forwards driving the man with him as he slammed into another archer, sending him twisting and spinning off the wall with a fading scream. He drew his sword from the archer in time to catch the axe of one of Stannis' men. He pulled back, pulling the axeman into him and sinking his metal fist into the man's face, feeling bone and cartilage shatter beneath it.

He felt the bite of a blade on his helmet and staggered forwards, turning to face his foe, a man of the Marches. They locked blades and pushed against each other. This one was stocky and strong and was slowly pushing Loren back further and further.

A mass of metal slammed into his attacker and drove him away, raising a longaxe and sinking it into his chest. The bloodstained warrior turned and nodded to Loren, who nodded back. But then he pointed behind him and Loren spun in time to face his attacker. The next man was a footman in mail wielding a mace in his armoured fist.

He leapt forward, seized his attacker's right hand with his left and slammed the pommel of his sword into his face. Warm blood spurted across his face as the man's nose exploded in a fountain of blood. He raised the sword and brought it down again, bursting his left eye into a stream of viscous fluid like an overripe grape had been burst. He stepped back and thrust the point of his sword into his attacker's face. The man spun wildly, his mace ringing off the battlements and shattering the skull of an archer before he fell to the battlements, dead.

The enemy were still coming up the ladders. He charged at one about to emerge, barging past combatants on both sides. He rammed his blade up underneath the metal skirts of the man's armour, ramming home hard and true. The man clutched at the metal before collapsing to the ground. He pulled at his blade, but it had stuck on bone, and another was already coming. He released his grip on the sword handle and brought his fist back. He punched the next man's helmet, driving his metal fist onto it again and again. He raised a hand to try and stem the barrage of blows, and Loren felt his finger's cry out in agony under his gauntlet, but he gave one last punch to the man's gorget and he jerked back, his other hand slipping from the ladder, flailed in mid air before falling to the ground.

He screamed his triumph at the foe. They were abandoning these ladders. The calls of home were rolling over him like waves, crashing out to Stannis' army on the beaches. The army on the beaches was in disarray, far more so than just from a landing on them. He narrowed his eyes. There were boats coming in with no soldiers on them. _What are you doing, Stannis, what's your plan?_ He looked up and down the wall. He could hear the sounds of a ram, beating like a drum on one of the gates, and there were still ladders affixed to the walls, and some men at arms rushing to them, holding shields up against the deluge of arrows and stones from the walls. Still his trebuchets were flinging pots of wildfire against the enemy, but with fewer archers on fewer sections of wall than before, there were some that were just shattering and spilling their fluid. The enemy were learning to avoid these patches of wild fire, some were even clearing the area then setting it alight to burn itself out. Those that landed in the water bobbed up and down helplessly, twisting and turning.

Across the river, Stannis' army was in disarray. All throughout the battle they had been arrayed in neat formation, ready to file onto boats and cross the rush to flow into any breach made by the vanguard. Even the Company would have been proud. But now... now they were a mess, men were walking in circles, banners moving to and fro, like a headless centipede, it's hundred legs skittering wildly over the muddy bank without aim or direction.

Casting his eyes back to the beach, the empty boats were leaving with soldiers, but even still, the enemy still attacked them, pressing home what they thought was an advantage. But something else was happening here. Why were the enemy stopping? _All they had to do was keep pushing, and Lord Stannis knows that. Why is he stopping? What are you thinking Stannis?_

Whatever he was thinking the masses of wood in the Rush would be able to overwhelm him, unless... He turned over the battlements to look down at the wounded and bedraggled men from the sorties gathered before the gate. "Mount up! Everyone with a horse get back on it, those without, prepare to follow up behind."

"My lord," Ser Balon stepped up to see him, he was worn out from the battle, his Morningstar crusted with blood. "The men are exhausted, we can't fight this."

Loren pointed out over the beach. "The enemy are in disarray, and look at the walls," half his archers were dead or no longer capable of holding a bow, he could thin out other sections of the wall, but if he did they would be overwhelmed, and he had no idea what was happening in the north. "We have this one chance, while the enemy longboats are coming in, we surge out, take the beach, fire the boats, keep Stannis away."

"You're risking everything," said one of his gold cloak captains.

"I am risking everything because I know that if I don't, we've lost. I need you all," he implored the men below. "This is it, one last charge, we can break the enemy here. One more, that is all I can ask of you, all anyone could ever ask of you. Please, I need you."

"Bugger that," cried one soldier.

"My home is in here!"

"This is the only way. One more, one more charge, if it fails... you are all released from your service, if it works, you will be heroes. Either way, you win, give me one more attack, and I will give you your lives." Some were wavering, but he had to move, no more time for waiting, if he did, they might decide to be released before the attack even happened. "Bring me my horse!"

He made no eye contact as he strode over to his horse, which Tyland brought over, barded and ready for war. His own retinue were formed up behind him and they weren't alone for long, Gerold came over with the battered riders of his own sortie, while Ser Balon swung himself back onto his horse and took up the royal standard. In twos and threes men in red and gold came up to stand behind the horsemen and squires took up weapons to fight alongside their knights.

Soon enough he had a sword ready to thrust out of the gate. "Open the gate!"

He drew his sword as the wooden gate swung open, green and gold flickering in the plain beyond. "Charge!" He roared and put his spurs to his horse.

They streamed out of the gate, a flying lance of knights. Before them, the enemy were disorganised, huddled under shields for protection from darting arrows, some were pulling longboats ashore, half filled with men half filling up with them, serjeants at arms barked orders and tried to get them to brace for the last unexpected charge. He saw the greatest knot of men clustered near the shore and turned his horse to them. His steeds hoofs slipped on the blood soaked earth but the skilled beast kept racing. He raised his sword to lead the men where he needed them, green fire kissing the blade as the sound of trumpets and battle cries raced past him. Then they were amongst the enemy, he felt spears break on the armour of his horse and heard screams of terror as he brought his sword down on the head of the nearest man at arms, the skull shattering under the blow, he took another head and an arm before his horse was dancing amidst the red running water. It was soon joined by his fellows as his lance punched through the cluster of Baratheon men. Many were dead, more were scattering. "Keep moving!" He ordered, a line of archers were notching arrows to their bows, but they were unguarded. "Charge!" He led the way again, some falling in step behind him, but others splitting off to go after other enemies. He saw Ser Balon, Morningstar spinning, tear through another dozen men trying to get a ladder to the walls. The archers before him didn't buckle though, instead they calmly raised their bows and loosed a swarm of arrows. The arrows rung off his horse's armour, but the knight next to him wasn't so lucky, one arrow clipped it's leg and the beast fell on top of the man. He heard more knights falling behind him. But that was all they got, he was among them and they scattered before the lion. "Fight me you bastards!" He roared, carving this way and that, striking hard and fast. It was done.

They were breaking all along the beach. More soldiers had followed him, gold and red cloaked infantry forming up with dismounted knights and men at arms to set themselves upon the enemy on the beaches. Only half the enemy were fighting, the rest were hauling themselves back onto ships, on the southern bank, Stannis' host was slithering away, banners and men marching into the Rainwood and out of sight. Had he given up, but hundreds of men were still on boats. Some weren't even escaping that way, fuelled on anger and vengeance, the city's defenders were dragging men at arms from boats that hadn't made it fast enough away and slaughtering those inside, he saw the occupants beg for mercy before the knives fell. Others had found themselves generous defenders and were being bound in rope and chains, some were already being dragged into the city; and all along the beach the men were crying out in victory. The charge had been successful, they had driven lord Stannis' host into the sea. "Lord Loren!" The cry was taken up and soon the army was cheering his name for the triumph. But they hadn't won, not yet.

"Everyone, back in the city, take what you can and get back behind the walls, they could come back. And there are still the enemies to the north to deal with."

He let the word spread before returning behind the city walls.

Letting the captains at the gate handle the organisation of the returning forces, he rode with his retinue to the north.

There, the attack continued, the enemy inching closer and closer to the walls, one ram had reached the Dragon Gate where boiling pitch and flame had seen to it, but another two were prepared and marching towards the walls. "Hold them back!" He ordered. He didn't have the men here to launch another attack outside the walls, and these foes were organised, it would be a slaughter. Surprise and the disorganisation had made up for the lack of experience of his army in the south, neither would help here.

"My lord, a new force approaches from the west!"

"What!?" Had Stannis' ships landed another host far to the west, but why? What purpose would that serve?

"An army comes from the west my lord."

"Shit! Captain, hold the wall."

He rushed down to his horse and put his spurs to its flank.

They rode past knots of celebrating soldiers, soldiers telling the people that they had driven off the enemy, that the battle was won. "We haven't won yet, return to your posts!" He yelled as he passed, citizens and soldiers rushing out of his way.

The west wall hadn't seen any battle and the few men on it clutched bows and spears tightly. He saw it too. A great mass of men and horses were flying towards the city, miniscule banners fluttering over their heads, but he couldn't make them out. "Stand ready," he urged the men, don't waver. _How do I beat that as well?_

But as they got closer he saw the banners. They were red. Red and gold. The colours of Lannister. The host split, most still poured towards the site of his victory, but another detachment turned their mounts north, riding hard towards the gates in the north, where the enemy still assaulted the city.

It was over, the battle was won.


	62. Book 2 Shireen III

She'd been waiting for so long that she half expected to look down and see knots of wrinkles covering the back of her hands. But there were no wrinkles, no signs of age and her brother was home.

The fleet began as pinpricks in the distance, tiny blobs unmistakable from the rolling and crashing waves to the untrained eye. It was just like when she, Lyonel and their mother had waited for father from the Greyjoy Rebellion, only this time, Lyonel was out on the ships, and she was alone with her mother. They crawled closer across the ocean, getting larger and prouder with each passing moment. First she could see the sails, then the hulls, then the sigils on the sails and the flags flying atop the masts and the rigging, then the crews.

 _In perfect formation, just like brother._ They were coming in in rows of twenty ships or more as they pulled into the harbour.

"Just like your father did," her mother commented, holding Shireen's hand.

The ships stayed the bite of the wind into the bay, floating shields against the elements themselves.

She saw boats being lowered into the water, complete with Men at Arms and archers before being rowed to shore. _Why have your brought so many men back with you?_ She wondered, surely father needed the men. There were still rival armies in the field, the Starks, the Lannisters. Perhaps this was just an honour guard for his son. Yes, that would be it. It would explain why they didn"t have any loot or treasure with them, and why they were solemnly filing onto the beach, not cheering for victory or making a sound.

 _They could be more dutiful though, and better organised_. Some of them were wondering around like headless chickens, others had picked up others" weapons or armour from the boats, archers milled with men at arms and knights, ignoring most of the others on the beach who had come to see the Fleet return. She hadn't organised a viewing of it, for she hadn't thought that the entire fleet would be coming, she'd thought most would remain and Lyonel would come to retrieve her himself. As for their lack of organised arrival, she could forgive that, no doubt her brother was reliving and enjoying his victory too much. She could forgive him that, she could forgive him anything.

Keep calm, she told herself as she saw him come into the dock in a rowing boat, his head held low, looking at the deck. He's probably tired, she reasoned. He had just fought a battle, an experience she would never hope to have.

The boat beached itself securely on the sand, driving up onto the surf, two of the men at arms aboard leaping ashore to pull it up. Lyonel was the last to disembark, fatigued limbs pulling him over the side of the boat and moving up the beach. Still he looked at the ground. "Lyonel!" She called as he approached. He glanced up with dead eyes, no light left in them, no joy, looking at her like he didn't see her, didn't care for her. "What's wrong?" She asked. He started walking again. She prepare for the hug she knew was coming. Felt his hand on her shoulder, ready to pull her in.

Then he pushed her aside and kept on walking.

She blinked. "Lyonel?" Something cold and wrong clamped around her wrist and her brother kept on walking. She tore her gaze away from the back of her brother's head, she couldn't see what was wrong with him through the midnight shield of hair. Instead she looked at what was holding her wrist. It was her mother. She dragged her gaze up the chain like arm and into her face. It was as hard an expression that she had ever seen on her father's face, but never on her mother's. She beckoned and Uncle Roland, who had just climbed from his own boat came over, blood caking his cloak and surcoat. His footfalls were heavy as rain in a storm, the sand crunching beneath his iron heel. "Sister," he said, bowing his head.

"What happened?" Her mother's voice was strong but flat. Unchanging from one syllable to the next.

"We lost," Rolland said at once. "We were on the cusp of victory... but then the Lannisters and Tyrells came, charging on our flanks while the army was divided, half north of the Rush, and half south of it. We were driven away."

Her heart was carried away in that instant. Her mother kept talking, Rolland replied. They spoke of riverbanks and lost soldiers, of Tyrells and Lannisters, of Lyonel and Stannis. But she had prayed. She had spent every moment she could spare in the sept, praying for success for her family. The gods knew that the Lannisters bathed in the black waters of sin. Why then would they grant victory to them? Unless they had been wrong, and Joff and the others were her cousins, that her uncle had fathered his supposed children. Was that not what the gods were saying here, the grand trial by battle proving that Joff was correct and they were wrong?

The cold and warmth railed against her skin like the breath of the gods at war with themselves, her feet gliding over stone and sand, dragging like heavy anchors were strapped to them by invisible chains, chafing at her ankles. Creaking doors drove nails through her ear drums and fires crackled with the cackling of callous gods.

"We lost," she muttered. "Lyonel lost."

"He did," her mother replied, setting her down in a chair. Her voice was empty, like a twig on the beach, swept away from the land on the inescapable rising of the tide.

She was in her mother's solar, a warm fire crackling and seeping warmth into the room, a vain shield against the cold punishment of defeat the gods had gifted them. She pushed herself to her feet. "I'm going to Lyonel."

"Stop!" Shireen jumped as her mother's tongue lashed at the air.

"Why?" She asked.

"You cannot go to Lyonel, not now," her mother insisted in an iron tone. "He must _not_ become dependent on you. You will not always be there for him. One day you will be married, and in a castle far from him. And if he suffers a defeat as king, you won't be there. You both need to learn that you _will_ be apart. If you were his wife, it would be a different matter. A wife may provide comfort and warmth for her husband in this matter."

"But Lyonel isn't married," Shireen replied. Surely her mother hadn't forgotten that? "There is no one else to provide him comfort." And her mother was wrong, if ever Lyonel needed her, she would be there. She'd be the King's sister, no one would dare stop her from rushing across half the world if he needed her.

"And I am not with your father," her mother reminded her. "Nor will I go running to him. Men must learn to stand on their own two feet. Mothers must allow sons to take up arms, sisters must allow brothers to grow strong and fast in battle and tourney, and wives must allow their husbands to ride off to war. Lyonel knows this, and you must learn it as well."

"But he needs me!"

"He needs you to see him as strong, not like this," her mother replied at once. Those words struck like a hammer blow. She thought back to their archery contest. Months ago now. His anger at missing, his plea not to help him. "Now he is weak. You would be doing him an unkindness to see his weakness. If you don't learn to be apart, then when the world pulls you apart, it will hurt all the more."

She bit her lip. "But he needs me," she said again as a whisper.

"He doesn't. Your brother is not so weak that he will fall apart without you." Her words were harsh, even as her intent was not. "And the same can be said for you. But you must learn that." Her mother glided over to her lightly, pulling her in to a soft embrace. "Go to bed now, daughter. Let your brother be for now."

"I- yes mother."

Her mother sat down at her desk once more. She'd been writing letters almost ceaselessly since they had come up here, sending them to the maester to be sent across the lands her father still claimed. Was she asking for aid, trying to learn truths lost in the muddiness of war, or something else. She didn't know, all she could think about was the back of Lyonel's head as he pushed her away.

She slithered from the room and made for her own chambers, which seemed so empty and cold in the darkness that was gathering. Looking out from her balcony she could see fires being lit on the beach, the telltale smells of cooking food, conversation fluttered up to her ears like butterflies, the words long lost.

She turned away and seized a shawl of sealskin, wrapping it around her shoulders gently and taking a lamp in her hand. Whatever her mother said, Lyonel needed her.

Her feet padded softly along the stone floor towards her brother's chambers, the lamp casting deep shadows onto the walls, twisted and laughing in cruelty and malice at their misfortune.

She turned the corner towards her brother's room and froze, the shadows still flickering. Two guards stood outside her brother's rooms, polearms held, the steel flickering red with the light of the torches in brackets and her own lamp. They turned to face her. "Princess?"

"This is a late hour my lady," the other one said, stepping forward. "You should be in bed."

"I need to see my brother," she said.

They glanced at each other. "Forgive me, my lady," the first one said cautiously. "But your mother has ordered that no one enter the prince's chambers."

 _Mother!_ "Well she didn't mean me, I'm your princess."

"I mean no offence, my lady," the guard replied. "But she told us that you in particular were not to enter."

 _How dare she!_ She rose up to her full height. "I am your princess, and you will let me pass!"

"Forgive me, princess, but I cannot. The Queen has spoken."

"Let me through!" She tried to pass them, but one of them held her arm fast but firm.

"Please Princess, don't do this."

"Go back to bed, my princess," said the other one. "Speak to your mother about the matter tomorrow."

"Let me pass! Now!" She yelled.

With a click the door to Lyonel's chamber opened. Her brother's face, dishevelled and worn looking emerged. "What's going on?" He asked in a dead voice.

"Lyonel!"

"Her Grace has ordered that you are not to be disturbed, my prince," one of the guards cut her off. "That even the Princess was not to disturb you for the night."

Lyonel's face was still for a second, then he spoke. "If it's mother's order... go away Shireen." Without another word, the door shut again.

"... princess?"

Lyonel had never turned her away before.

"-ling well princess?"

How?

"-to escort you back to your chambers?"

Why?

"My lady?"

She turned and hurried back to her chambers, tucking her chin to her breast to keep her tears hidden from the shadows on the wall, cackling in judgement.


	63. Book 2 Loren X

_Stark: We'll be getting back to Winterfell start of ASOS. For now I've just got a couple of things to wrap up in the south here. In terms of the updates I'm going to try and be more consistent with them, but I do have work to balance with it, so please bear with me._

* * *

The denizens of Joffrey's court had striven to outdo each other today. Jalabhar Xho was all in feathers, a plumage so fantastic and extravagant that he seemed like to take flight. The High Septon"s crystal crown fired rainbows through the air every time he moved his head. At the council table, His dear sister shimmered in a cloth-of-gold gown slashed in burgundy velvet, while beside her Varys fussed and simpered in a lilac brocade. Moon Boy and the knight turned fool Ser Dontos wore new suits of motley, clean as a spring morning. Even fat Lady Tanda and her daughters looked pretty in matching gowns of turquoise silk, and sickly Lord Gyles was coughing into a square of scarlet silk trimmed with golden lace. King Joffrey sat above them all, amongst the blades and barbs of the Iron Throne. He was in crimson samite, his black mantle studded with rubies, on his head his heavy golden crown.

As a lord and member of the Council, he was permitted to sit above and look over it all from beside the throne. Those on the ground were less fortunate, jostling and squirming to get to the front where they could see or be seen. But all of that stopped, the crowd rooting themselves to the ground they had been able to seize when the trumpets heralded the arrival of the lion of the Rock, Lord Tywin Lannister.

Loren was glad he had his moustache to hide his snarling teeth from the room. His father rode in on the most magnificent armour in the west; all burnished red steel, inlaid with golden scrollwork and ornamentation. His rondels were sunbursts, the roaring lion that crowned his helm had ruby eyes, and a lioness on each shoulder fastened a cloth-of-gold cloak so long and heavy that it draped the hindquarters of his charger. Even the horse's armour was gilded, and his bardings were shimmering crimson silk emblazoned with the lion of Lannister.

He loved the sight when his father dismounted before the Iron Throne, kneeling before the throne. In truth it was a sign of supplication to Joffrey, a sign and nothing more, but still, the sight of his father on his knee was one he seared into his mind.

Then came the moment of hate. Joffrey descended from the throne, brought Lord Tywin to his feet, and proclaimed him Saviour of the City for all to see. He took his clenched fist from the table. Joff them turned to him. The boy had been coached about what to say and do this day, but Loren suspected that he would be enjoying this bit. "Lord Loren, your efforts are appreciated and were admirable, but our enemies fled before the mere rumour of your father, and his experience far outstrips your own. I would ask him to assume governance of the realm until I come of age, and to do so as my Regent and Hand of the King."

He got to his feet aware of all the eyes of the court on him. "If it is as his grace wishes, I will surrender my position." He slipped the badge of office from his doublet and gave it over to the king.

Lord Tywin's squires removed his armour from him and Joff pinned the badge of office on his grandfather, who solemnly accepted the duty of Hand and Regent "until his grace does come of age to take the reins of governance yourself." His horse was taken away and Loren surrendered the seat of the Hand, letting his father take his place. It was a good thing that Joff had handed the badge over, Loren might have driven it through his father's eye.

Lord Tywin wasted no time, for it was he who gave the signal for the proceedings to continue.

Next came the "heroes" of the Blackwater, but Loren looked over them all, not one of them had fought upon the walls, not one of them had overturned the rams or sallied from the gates. They were heralded by trumpets and fanfares, and the crowd cheered like cutthroats at a cockfight. Heralds called out his deeds and triumphs as fuel for the fires of celebration. He swallowed the bile in his throat.

Pride of place was given to Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden, a once-powerful man gone to fat, yet still handsome. His sons followed him in; Ser Loras and his older brother Ser Garlan the Gallant. The three dressed alike, in green velvet trimmed with sable.

The king descended the throne once more to greet them, a great honor. He fastened about the throat of each a chain of roses wrought in soft yellow gold, from which hung a golden disc with the lion of Lannister picked out in rubies. "The roses support the lion, as the might of Highgarden supports the realm," proclaimed Joffrey. "If there is any boon you would ask of me, ask and it shall be yours."

"Your Grace," said Ser Loras, "I beg the honour of serving in your Kingsguard, to defend you against your enemies."

Joff brought him to his feet and kissed him on the cheek. "I would be honoured, good ser, however, I at present find myself surrounded by seven white swords, the holy number, I have no opening for you."

"If I may, your grace," Lord Tywin said. "Sandor Clegane distinguished himself in the battle. As did Ser Gregor, however, Ser Gregor has no heir of his body. To keep his brother in your personal guard would be to doom a house that has honoured and served you all your life. Release him from your vows to save that house and I am certain that Ser Loras would make an adequate replacement."

The Hound parroted the same words in his own tongue, and so Joff was happy to grant his cloak to Loras. _So dismissing Selmy made no sense, father, well now white cloaks are interchangeable for any excuse._

Lord Tyrell bowed his head. "There is no greater pleasure than to serve the King's Grace. If I was deemed worthy to join your royal council, you would find none more loyal or true."

"Your Grace," Garlan said when the king approached him, "I have a maiden sister, Margaery, the delight of our House. She was wed to Renly Baratheon, as you know, but Lord Renly went to war before the marriage could be consummated, so she remains innocent. Margaery has heard tales of your wisdom, courage, and chivalry, and has come to love you from afar. I beseech you to send for her, to take her hand in marriage, and to wed your House to mine for all time."

King Joffrey made a show of looking surprised. "Ser Garlan, your sister's beauty is famed throughout the Seven Kingdoms, but I am promised to another. A king must keep his word."

Cersei got to her feet in a rustle of skirts. "Your Grace, in the judgment of your small council, it would be neither proper nor wise for you to wed the daughter of a man beheaded for treason, a girl whose brother is in open rebellion against the throne even now. Sire, your councilors beg you, for the good of your realm, set Sansa Stark aside. The Lady Margaery will make you a far more suitable queen."

Like a pack of trained dogs, the lords and ladies in the hall began to shout their pleasure. "Margaery," they called. "Give us Margaery!" and "No traitor queens! Tyrell! Tyrell!" Joffrey raised a hand. "I would like to heed the wishes of my people, Mother, but I took a holy vow." The High Septon stepped forward. "Your Grace, the gods hold bethrothal solemn, but your father, King Robert of blessed memory, made this pact before the Starks of Winterfell had revealed their falseness. Their crimes against the realm have freed you from any promise you might have made. So far as the Faith is concerned, there is no valid marriage contract twixt you and Sansa Stark."

Lord Tywin was looking at his grandson. Joff gave him a sullen glance, shifted his feet, and helped Ser Garlan Tyrell to rise. "The gods are good. I am free to heed my heart. I will wed your sweet sister, and gladly, ser." He kissed Ser Garlan on a bearded cheek as the cheers rose all around them.

He sat back. Heroes on horseback got everything, those who fought on brick and mud didn't get a passing notice.

But of course, no all those who had fought in the relief host had been Tyrells, there were more heroes on horseback to be honoured. Paxter Redwyne, Lord of the Arbor, marched down the length of the hall flanked by his sons Horror and Slobber, the former limping from a wound taken in the battle, he was the one Loren had released. Slobber hadn't even been in the fight, he'd been in the Red Keep. _He gets honoured alongside his father, yet here I am, sitting like an obedient pup_. After them followed Lord Mathis Rowan in a snowy doublet with a great tree worked upon the breast in gold thread; Lord Alester Florent, who had rallied the Reachmen centre and broken the Baratheon rearguard on the southern bank of the river and personally killed Ser Bryan Fossoway ;Lord Randyll Tarly, lean and balding, a greatsword across his back in a jeweled scabbard like those favoured by men of the company. He had thought of the company often, if they had been the relief army, they would have recognised his achievements. After Tarly came his uncle Ser Kevan Lannister; Ser Addam Marbrand, coppery hair streaming to his shoulders; the great western lords Lydden, Crakehall, and Brax.

Some common born men, squires and sellswords who had distinguished themselves came forward. At the front was Bronn, who had defended the north wall ably against the Baratheon assault there. For his defiance of the enemy, he was granted and knighthood and the hand of the heiress to a castle in the Reach, all but a death sentence for the old man currently there. Two common born soldiers who saved their masters and fought well were granted a measure of wealth, and their sons taken as squires and pages at Casterly Rock and Highgarden respectively. Lord Commander Bywater was granted the lordship of Darry, who's trueborn line had perished in the fighting in the Riverlands. A man who deserved what he had earned, finally.

Then came the second and third sons and distant cousins. A rough split from the Reach and Westerlands who were praised for their bravery in the battle, but apart from gifts of minor castles and those still held by the enemy to the north or south, there was nothing to offer but praise, a mask for how shallow the great victory was. Too many enemies had escaped for their lands to be easily distributed. And to do so now would only ensure that they would continue to fight for Lord Stannis or Robb Stark, even giving out Darry was risky, it would need to be claimed from a man who has known no defeat thus far.

But now came the greatest surprise and strangest rewards to be given out yet. The heralds trumpeted the arrival of Tyrion Lannister. He waddled into the throne room in the richest and most vibrant clothes Loren had ever seen his brother wear he was smiling and, though there was no cheering, there was no jeering either. Behind him, in sharp contrast, came his tribesmen, looking bemusedly at the nobles on either side.

"Your Grace," Ser Kevan said, having sat beside Lord Tywin at the table. "As you have been informed, your Uncle Tyrion's negotiations on your behalf helped to bind the houses of Lannister and Tyrell behind your reign. Then he and his... associates led the charge north of the city, helping to drive the traitor Stannis" men from the walls." Tyrion knelt before Joffrey.

Ser Kevan turned to the crowd back to his feet. "It is the wish of the King's Grace that his loyal councillor Tyrion Lannister be rewarded for faithful service to crown and realm. Be it known that Lord Tyrion is granted the castle of Harrenhal with all its attendant lands and incomes, there to make his seat and rule henceforth as Lord Paramount of the Trident. Tyrion Lannister and his sons and grandsons shall hold and enjoy these honours until the end of time, and all the lords of the Trident shall do him homage as their rightful liege. The King's Hand and the small council consent."

 _Harrenhal is the seat of Kings indeed father._ Loren mused, thinking back to the last conversation with his father before coming to the city. But it was quite the move. After all, if they won against the Starks, House Lannister's holdings would double, enough to rival the Tyrells, even if there were two different branches, a Lannister was a Lannister.

"Now his grace wishes to honour his uncle, Lord Loren, who held the walls against Lord Stannis' assaults by both land and sea."

And so here it was, the moment where he, the true saviour of the city, was to be dressed down and given his symbolic reward and none of the appropriate respect.

"It is the wish of his grace to acknowledge your skills in battle, and recognise that you have been removed from the position of Hand of the King through no fault of your own. And so it is, on the advice of his noble grandfather, the Hand of the King Tywin Lannister, your lord father, that he is naming you the King's Marshall."

An empty title, and one that custom dictated he now ask about"Forgive me, uncle, I must confess my ignorance to that title." _Other than a collar to slip around my neck, a bright flower to pin on my chest as you pet my head and claim my victory_

This time his father spoke up. "You shall have command of the King's armies in the field. You shall have command over all the ships and soldiers and banners of those sworn to Joffrey and in the name of your office, you shall command them against the traitors infesting the realm."

If his father had been closer Loren would have choked the life from him. _And so I'm rewarded. You take my victory father, and in reward I am given a leash!_ Command in name, but subject to the Hand of the King in truth. He could see it. _Curse you father, have I not proved my worth next to the great Tywin Lannister yet?_

He pulled his teeth apart before they shattered. He'd rehearsed it in his head a hundred times to not make a display of it, but still it burned white hot within him. "It would be my honour to lead your armies into battle against the betrayers, your grace," he replied, bowing his head and the cheers rose from behind him.

He made his way back to the seat and sat down heavily.

He was the last to be praised. Next came the enemy, those who had been captured before Stannis could complete his retreat. Those who knelt and begged forgiveness were permitted to keep their lands and titles by Joffrey, but a handful remained defiant.

"Do not imagine this is done, boy," warned one, the bastard son of some Fossoway or other. "The Lord of Light protects King Stannis, now and always. All your swords and all your scheming shall not save you when his hour comes."

"Your hour is come right now." Joffrey beckoned to Ser Ilyn Payne to take the man out and strike his head off. But no sooner had that one been dragged away than a knight of solemn mien with a fiery heart on his surcoat shouted out, "Stannis is the true king! A monster sits the Iron Throne, an abomination born of incest!"

"Be silent," Ser Kevan Lannister bellowed.

"King Stannis will return!" cried another.

"Prince Lyonel has the gods on his side, you will not hold that throne from them forever!"

"Joffrey is the black worm eating the heart of the realm! Darkness was his father, and death his mother! Destroy him before he corrupts you all! Destroy them all, queen whore and king worm, vile dwarf and whispering spider, the false flowers. Save yourselves!" One of the gold cloaks knocked the man off his feet, but he continued to shout. "The scouring fire will come! King Stannis will return!"

Joffrey lurched to his feet. "I'm king! Kill him! Kill him now! I command it." He chopped down with his hand, a furious, angry gesture . . . and screeched in pain when his arm brushed against one of the sharp metal fangs that surrounded him. The bright crimson samite of his sleeve turned a darker shade of red as his blood soaked through it. "Mother!" he wailed.

With every eye on the king, somehow the man on the floor wrested a spear away from one of the gold cloaks, and used it to push himself back to his feet. "The throne denies him!" he cried. "He is no king!"

Cersei was running toward the throne, but Lord Tywin remained still as stone. He had only to raise a finger, and Ser Meryn Trant moved forward with drawn sword. The end was quick and brutal. The gold cloaks seized the knight by the arms. "No king!" he cried again as Ser Meryn drove the point of his longsword through his chest. Joff fell into his mother's arms. Three maesters came hurrying forward, to bundle him out through the king's door. Then everyone began talking at once. When the gold cloaks dragged off the dead man, he left a trail of bright blood across the stone floor.

Still more of the defiant ones rose, some for Lord Stannis, some for Lord Lyonel, some for the Seven and some for the Red God, but the defiance was there.

Loren only watched it bemusedly. Stannis may be a false king. But he inspires more loyalty than Joff ever would.

But his father would brook none of it, they were all taken in their turn and the Lion restored order to the throne room. He moved to the now vacant throne, and sat it as Hand.

Loren could only watch. The paper sheet of his new office a cold comfort as his father established his authority over King's Landing.

 _I go east and he sends Kevan. I return to Casterly Rock, and he looms there eternal, I defend King's Landing and he claims the victory. Is there nowhere I can go where he won't be there to suppress me?_

But he kept his silence. Breaking it would do nothing for him.

Yet.


	64. Book 2 Robb IV

The war in the west was over, and the northern army was returning home. They had scored a number of victories over the Lannister bannermen, taking several castles and their wealth in silver and steel, fresh spears, swords and pikes for his soldiers and prisoners for ransom. Thousands of cattle had been driven back into the Riverlands, enough to feed his army for months, longer if stored and salted properly.

They had dealt damage and death to the Westerlands. Aside from the cattle and castles, they had ravaged the Lannister fields. He only had six thousand men, but he had tried to hit as many lands of as many western lords as possible to draw Tywin back. But it had failed. Tywin had not come, he had been wounded at the Crag and then news had come from Riverrun.

" _What do you mean he's stopped Tywin's march!?" Robb demanded furiously._

" _Your Grace you must rest, your wound is not yet healed," Perwyn Frey reminded him, but in this moment he couldn't care less._

 _The Blackfish's lined face was harder than Robb had ever seen it. Had they not given Edmure clear instructions? He was to hold Riverrun. At no point had Robb ever said that he was to give battle to Tywin Lannister._

" _It's true, Your Grace," the Blackfish said. "My nephew has repelled an assault by Tywin Lannister across the Trident, driving him south-east and away from here."_

 _Every victory scored, every pound of silver and gold seized now seemed like dead weight. Defeating Lord Tywin could have won them everything. King's Landing would have fallen to Lord Renly or Lord Stannis, whichever of the two was victorious. Or if they destroyed each other then Robb could march on the city itself. Now he had trophies but more battles and uncertainty ahead if he was to win the war. And he couldn't even vent himself on the lands of Lord Tywin further. When he had entered the Westerlands he had a fair idea of what was going on in the south. Now he must return, to see matters were tended to. The gain of remaining here was outweighed by the risk._

" _Uncle, give the order to the host. We ride for the Trident in three day's time."_

Now the fields that he saw were not his enemy's to take, but his to protect.

He kicked his horse into action, grunting as pain shot through his leg. It hadn't properly healed since the attack on the Crag, but he couldn't wait. He had to come back to the Riverlands to prepare it's defences. And there was also a more delicate issue. So far he was undefeated on the battlefield. He knew what effect that had on the enemy. They would come at him with the full knowledge that their opponent was capable of achieving victory. But if the injury were to permanently scar him... Lady Jeyne and the Maester had said it was possible that the leg would have to come off if it became infected. He hadn't had to say a word. Grey Wind growled, but not as much as his personal guard. They wouldn't let either of them near him with anything that could threaten his life. If he were to lose a leg in the Westerlands, Lord Tywin would hear of it eventually. But if he had to lose it, it would be better for his kingdom to lose it in the Riverlands. When there they could control who learned about it, for a time at least, maintaining the illusion of the undefeated northern king. And if he were to die...

They'd heard of Tristan getting wounded at Winterfell, but knew nothing more than that. But Robb knew he would feel in his heart if his twin were to perish. Grey Wind would feel Shield's pain. Tristan yet lived, and was his heir. If he were to perish, they would need to be able to summon him... give him the crown.

He worried for that day. Tristan was many things. Loyal, strong, fearless, a fighter beyond compare... but he was no king. He lacked the patience for kingship, the will to forge a peace when necessary and the desire to protect his vassals and people beyond his own will for revenge.

The solution was simple, he just had to survive.

They made it to Pinkmaiden by the end of the next day. The strong keep of House Piper sat on the southern bank of the Trident, and a small bridge crossed the trident to it. Lord Piper had been part of the host summoned by Edmure to defend the Trident and had not yet returned, as such, Robb was met by his bailiff, a greying man with the look of a soldier about him, he was missing several fingers on his right hand. "Your Grace," he said with a bow. "I apologise for the absence of my lord, but he is at Riverrun, having assisted in the victory at the Fords.

Robb held back his retort as he swung off his horse, grunting as he put pressure on his injured leg. "No apology needed," he assured the bailiff, "but I fear I need to rest my leg, it has been a long day."

The man nodded. "Of course, Your Grace, you shall have Lord Piper's seat at the high table, and I have had his chambers prepared for you this night, should you like to stay."

"Thank you, ser. I have been on the move for some time, could you please update me on all you know about what has happened."

"It would be my pleasure.

They took him to Pinkmaiden's main hall and he sat on the lord's seat. "Your Grace... are you-"

"I'm fine," he replied stiffly. The bailiff would have had to have lost as many eyes as fingers to not notice the limp he was bearing, but Robb would not have it overplayed. He groaned as he eased himself into the wooden chair, taking the weight of his wounded thigh was a pleasure that he had come to appreciate beyond all others. But he was still a king, and there were still duties that he had to perform. 'so," he said to the bailiff as he eased his leg out. 'tell me what has happened while I've been gone?"

The bailiff nodded. "Lord Edmure assembled a host and repelled Lord Tywin from the Trident, forcing a retreat south and east. At the same time lord Bolton has taken Harrenhal and holds it strong, defeating the remaining Lannister garrisons in the east of your realm." That was good, if he held Harrenhal strongly then his options were far more open than before, he could ride out again once he recovered, battle the enemy on their land. If the situation in the south permitted it, he could take a larger host to the west, perhaps seize Lannisport or Casterly Rock. The Direwolf hanging from the Rock would utterly shatter Lannister power and prestige, he could defeat them without ever marching on King's Landing, and the gold reserves there would fuel the rest of the war and his kingdom for years. "And the south?"

"Lord Stannis marched on King's Landing, nearly took the city, but was repelled at the last moment. He was defeated by reinforcements from Lord Tywin and the Tyrells. Some say he is dead and his army destroyed, others say he fled upon hearing of their coming, some say that he was abandoned by his own son and others that Lord Stannis himself ordered his son to flee. The only thing that can be agreed upon is that Lord Stannis failed to take King's Landing, and now the Tyrells and Lannisters are solidified around the throne, with Margaery Tyrell set to marry Joffrey Baratheon and become his queen."

So now he had to face the two richest families in Westeros working together. The Tyrell armies were not only large but if they had only fought a single battle, and had only come as reinforcements at the end it was likely that they were relatively unblooded. The fresh armies of the Tyrells threatened to undo all his victories. "And the North?"

"We have heard nothing new that can be confirmed," the bailiff replied sorrowfully. "We know that Winterfell has been retaken. We've heard rumours that your brother has succumbed to his wounds, but other saying that he is even now marching on Moat Cailin and Deepwood Motte at the head of an army of wolves to reclaim them from the reavers." His brother lived, Robb knew it. "It's possible more is known at Riverrun."

He nodded. That was his next destination. In fact, if there was an alliance between the Tyrells and the Lannisters then he had to get back there as soon as possible, and prevent Edmure from dispersing the Riverlords again. But his men needed rest. "Send word to Riverrun," he said. "Tell them to prepare for our arrival. We rest here for one night, we leave tomorrow."

"Do you not wish to rest your leg a little longer, your grace?" The Blackfish asked.

The Greatjon laughed. "Our king is of the north, he won't let a prissy little scratch like that stop him!"

Robb smiled. "I must needs get to Riverrun in order to ready ourselves. But first I would meet with my loyal guards in private, and you, Ser Brynden, Lord Umber, Lord Karstark."

The bailiff nodded. "Guards, out, let us leave the king and his men." The Piper men at arms marched from the room, leaving Robb with the men and woman he had trusted with his life so far.

As soon as the door was shut he let out a groan of agony, the pain in his leg near constant now. Grey Wind seemed concerned by his side, and Olyvar stood close. "Your Grace should-"

"Enough," he said. "There are matters of import for which I need you all to listen." They all listened attentively. "As I'm sure you have now noticed," he said with a small smile, "my leg is... hindering me rather. I need to be prepared, and so do you."

"Your Gr-" Lord Umber began, but Robb held up his hand to stop him.

"If the worst should come to pass, and I should die, I want your oaths, all of you, that you will serve Tristan as well as you have me. That you will advise him and protect him as your king. You will do the same if I am incapacitated, for Tristan shall serve as regent for me while I am incapacitated."

"We shall of course swear such an oath, Your Grace," Dacey Mormont replied, earnestly. "But what about..."

"Yes?" Robb asked.

"What if what the bailiff said is true, and Lord Tristan is fallen?"

Robb wanted to take her neck and wring it for even suggesting it, but that was the twin in him talking, not the king. He knew Tristan to be alive, but knew that if he weren't provisions had to be made now, or the North and Trident would fall. "Then you will protect Bran," he said simply. "He is in line behind myself and Tristan, and while in his youth, a regency council shall be determined to govern in his name."

"Who shall sit on this council, Your Grace?"

It would have to be a mix. He needed the North and Trident together, they were all his subjects. "My mother," he said at once. "Ser Brynden; Ser Edmure and Lord Jason Mallister from the Trident lords, and Lord Umber, Lord Karstark and..." he considered who would fill the third northern seat. His other would favour her children and help raise them, she was the blood of the Trident but loved in the North. Lord Umber and Karstark had greatly assisted him in the war. Lord Bolton had been as well, but did he trust that man with Bran. Tristan had been greatly changed, and he was a warrior, Bran was too young. "Lord Manderly," he decided. Lord Manderly held White Harbour, with all it's wealth and power. "Someone write this down, I would have you affix your seals to it when I am done."

They fetched paper and ink, and Olyvar, the ever loyal squire, started writing out his orders in the event of his death or incapacity to rule. "Bran will rule for his lifetime, but he has been crippled, and will never father children alone. As such the line will continue through Rickon." Now there was a problem. One day, Rickon would have to marry and father children. In order to bind the North and Riverlands together, it would be best that he marry a girl from the Riverlands. But there were many northern lords who would think their daughters better suited. "If I should die, then Rickon will honour my agreement with Lord Frey, and marry one of his daughters. He will wed the closest in age to himself, with the priority going to the younger of them. That daughter shall go to Winterfell to be raised alongside Rickon along with Olyvar acting as her guardian while there."

Olyvar paused his writing and looked up at him. Robb didn't speak, he just nodded.

"Olyvar, take that to the maester to be copied out, officially, then bring it to me, I'll read it over and then, my lords and protectors, I will ask you to affix your seals to it for the future of the North and Trident."

The pain in his leg made sleep near impossible to find that night, but he was able to get a few hours in before they had to set off for Riverrun. Olyvar went above and beyond, helping him swing his injured leg over his horse quickly and without anyone seeing it. He proceeded to ride very close, ready to stabilise him if necessary.

They rode as hard as Robb's leg could bear. Overall, this part of the Riverlands had suffered less than the rest being on the western bank of the Trident they'd never been under Lannister occupation.

Thankfully Riverrun came into view as the sun was beginning to set. They hadn't even stopped to eat. His guard knew the reason, they had all seen how bad his leg was becoming, and they pushed on, some of the army behind might object, but they were still running on a victorious high, nothing could stop them now.

But it was getting harder and harder on the King in the North. He nearly fell several times and his vision was becoming bleary. "Olyvar," he whispered as they approached the castle of his mother's family. He clutched the reins to him tightly.

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"Find the Blackfish and Lord Umber, tell them to settle the army outside the castle, I don't want them all to see... me."

Olyvar didn't question him. "At once Your Grace."

He shook himself. He had to stay up until he was inside Riverrun. Every canter of his horse between his thighs sent another bolt through his wound, sweat was dripping down his face and something warm was spreading across his injured thigh.

He vaguely heard someone call for the gate to open, that would be nice wouldn't it, a nice open gate, he'd never taken a castle with an open gate before, why couldn't more of them do that?

He heard hooves rattle off earth, then wood, then earth once more. Not one arrow? Not a single crossbow bolt? Oh how he hated crossbow bolts. Maybe they'd even let him rest a while. His men surely didn't need him to take this castle, it had probably surrendered. He could just rest against his horse a while.

The King in the North slid from his horse onto the earthen courtyard of Riverrun without a care in the world.


	65. Book 3 Tristan I

_**A/N: I have no words other than I'm sorry.**_

He grunted in pain as he hit the floor for the hundredth time that afternoon. "Score one more for the flayed man," he heard Domeric cheer his victory, the latest in a long, long line of them.

"Damn you to heck Bolton," Tristan growled. Careful not to put too much pressure on his claw, he pushed himself to his feet, he stumbled but was caught by Elmar, who'd been waiting nearby.

"Are you-" his squire asked him, but Tristan shook him off.

"I'm fine," he said. "Again."

Domeric nodded and raised his sword, his blunted sword.

"I think not," Luwin spoke, his hands tucked into his sleeves and his face set in disapproval. "My prince you've put more than enough pressure on your hand for one day."

"My hand is fine Luwin," he snarled, spinning on the master. "Or did you mean my claw?" He held up the ruin of his left hand.

Theon's last work, an arrow loosed at the height of the assault, it had punched right through his left palm. The injury and the stress of the battle had caused him to pass out. While he'd slept, Luwin had been at work, saving his hand, to an extent. The fingers wouldn't open wide enough to let him grip anything larger than a fork. With some effort he could work some reins into his grip, which meant he at least wasn't confined to travel by foot or carriage. But his sword... his whole life the bastard sword had been his weapon, held in two hands for greater control and power. No longer.

"It is still a hand, my prince, now come on in, there are matters that must be discussed, and I need to make sure you haven't done lasting harm to it."

He tightened his grip on his sword, but Dom stepped back and Daryn held out a placating hand. "Tris, come on, don't fight on this one."

 _I can't fight anymore_. Since Luwin had cleared him to get of bed he'd been in the courtyard as many hours as he could, and spent every one of them getting his arse handed to him by each of his friends in turn. He thought back longingly to the days when he could take Daryn, Dom and Cley in pairs, now even Cley was comfortably beating him. _If I can't fight, then what am I?_

He let his friends and squire take him over to the side and sit him down gently, like he might shatter if they were too rough. He held out his hand obligingly, he could do that much at least. Carefully, Luwin unwrapped the hand. His curled fingers soothed by the cold air. Luwin examined them carefully. "Clench," he said. Tristan obediently clenched his fist and, without waiting to be told, rotated the wrist, the agony shooting through his wrist, a sharp and delicious pain. "Release." He released his grip and his fingers settled back a few scant centimetres into his claw. "Try opening." He tried, but they wouldn't open any wider, they never would. "Not yet." _Not ever._

"Is there anything else, or can I get back to training."

"We're due to hold a council," Luwin said. "You don't need to swing a sword for that."

"It would make them so much more fun though," Tristan said, but didn't fight it, he came north to lead the fight against the ironmen, so he would sit on the bloody council.

There were seven of them, Luwin, Cley, Daryn, Domeric and himself, sat on one side, and the representatives from the North sat across from them, Mors Umber, Cregan Manderly, Roger Ryswell of the Rills and Beren Tallhart. None but Daryn and Cley were lords in their own right, the rest were sons, brothers, cousins and nephews, the lords were marching, either with Robb in the south or Rodrik in the North, marching without him. He didn't sit in his father's – in Robb's chair, he wasn't worthy of it. Instead he took the chair to the side and the others sat around him.

"Is there any news?" It was as good a way to start the meeting as any.

"Ser Rodrik reports success in the Wolfswood," Luwin said, glancing down at his list of issues to get through. "He expects to have Deepwood Motte back under northern control by the time we have this meeting."

Tristan grunted. "So, Torrhen's Square, Deepwood Motte, Moat Cailin, is there anywhere left in the north under ironborn control?"

"Nothing of note," Roger Ryswell said, sitting forward, a victorious smile on his face. "We've evicted the ironmen from the few villages they seized in the rills."

"And we've done the same in our lands," Beren piped up, a would be warrior youth, only in his young teens.

"Raiders?"

"It would seem Lord Balon's ships have had enough of raiding," Cley said. "No reports of new ships have come in lately, and the people uprooted have come to Winter's Town. There'll be nothing but corpses and coral to pick through for the ironmen if they come again."

"Which brings us to another issue," Luwin said, sitting back, plucking at his list. "Winter's Town is nearly overflowing, and we lack the supplies to feed them for long, they've been of great help reaping the last of the seeds we can sow before Winter, but we can't maintain it."

"My cousin Lord Manderly once again extends his offer to help feed the people of Winter's Town throughout the coming winter, any necessary payment can be deferred until summer and victory have come." Ser Cregan was solemn and true, a good representative of his house.

Luwin pursed his lips. "I think that may well be our only option."

"Very well, Ser Cregan, send the request, what else?" Tristan asked. This was all going very well.

"There... is the matter of Theon-"

"He dies," Tristan cut across Luwin. "I have made my decision on the matter, as soon I can swing a sword again, his head will be mine."

Luwin had at first tried to dissuade him, to try and get him to trade Theon to Lord Balon for an ironman withdrawal, but Tristan would hear nothing of it. And with victory nearly secured, Tristan needed no more hesitation, if his hand would just bloody work!

"Then there is only one more matter." Luwin pulled out a thin sheet of paper, stamped with blue ink. "Your mother has written again, my prince, urging you to return south as soon as possible and with all possible strength."

"What is going on down there?" Tristan demanded. This was letter number four, surely Robb had everything in hand? He couldn't have fallen, but his mother needed him for some reason, what could it be.

"We don't know, my prince," Daryn said. "Elmar tried writing to his father, but Lord Frey is being unresponsive."

"Or maybe he's just late," he muttered to a few chuckles. "I came here to drive the ironmen from the North and recover Winterfell. I will go south when that is done, or if I'm needed, not before."

"You're mother seems to think you're needed," Daryn pointed out. "Maybe something has happened with the King?"

"If something had happened to Robb, we would know by now," he replied. It had been weeks since they'd heard that the Lannisters and Tyrells had saved King's Landing from the army of Stannis Baratheon. He may not know as much of warfare as his brother, but he'd seen a little of it now. Lord Greyjoy had used the opportunity of a weakened North to attack, Tywin had thinned out the Riverland defences before punching right through them, and quickly forged an alliance with the Tyrells to save King's Landing. If something had happened to Robb, the Lion of Lannister, now seated as Hand of the King, would have swept up through the Riverlands and taken them back. But of all they didn't know, the Lannisters and Tyrells were still huddled around King's Landing. "Robb is alive and well. He must be or we're lost." _Because I would be king if Robb were dead._

They seemed to agree on that point. "Well the return host has been gathering," Daryn said. "With winter coming more volunteers are arriving from all over to join the march south, most are older than I'd like, but,"

"More winters does not mean less skill Roger Ryswell reminded Daryn. "They come to spare their kin one more mouth to feed, unlike most of the footmen marching with Robb, they don't go home intending to return, that gives them a certain edge over those with mothers, sisters and lovers waiting for them."

" _When_ I go back south, how many will march with me?"

"If we take back the men who came with us as well, six thousand, Dom replied.

"And the Tyrells bring over one hundred thousand to the Lannisters. Every one of their losses has been replaced three fold," Ser Cregan said.

"Let's let Robb worry about the war in the south," Tristan said, his anger at not being able to fight the war starting to boil over. "Is there anything else on the agenda for the day?"

After a few more issues like a river dispute, poaching in the wolfswood and illegal foresting, they were done, so Tristan left, he was overdue for dinner with his brothers.

"Are you getting better?" Bran asked as they ate quietly.

Tristan nodded, pushing his fork through a chunk of duck meat before popping it into his mouth. Each of them were eating with only a fork, knives left clean at the side of the plate. Ever since his injury using a utensil in each hand was a struggle and his anger boiled every time he was forced to try and hack and cut at his food to make the portions small enough to eat without making his chest burn. One day, he'd almost hurled the plate across the room, only the fact that all the notables of Winterfell were there held him back. Someone had noticed his predicament though, and from then on, all dinners were served with the food cut up into portions small enough that everyone could eat using only a fork. He suspected it was Luwin, but it could have been any of them, they were all better to him than he deserved.

"Little by little Bran, but I'll never be back to how I was," he said, forcing a smile. He always said that when bran asked how he was doing with his training. The words seemed to make Bran happy. He'd been scared at first of upsetting Bran. Should he say that he would never improve, would that make Bran angry given how he'd been crippled compared to how Tristan had been weakened. But what if he said the reverse, what if he said he was improving, how he knew his injury was not as bad as his brothers, but would that only remind Bran that he couldn't improve his walking, that would never come back. He'd found an answer that worked, and so he kept using it for now. There would be time for Bran to confront another hard truth later, but for now, he needed his shield around him, time for his innocence to reassert itself before adulthood came to him. As his older brother, it was Tristan's job to be that shield.

Bran smiled and nodded. "What about you two? How are your lessons with Luwin going?"

"Good, he was teaching us the names of the stars earlier, I've nearly got them all!"

"Then you're better than me already," he chuckled, he never got how you could tell one star from another, they all looked exactly the same.

"What about you Rickon?" He asked.

Rickon grunted and pushed his food around his plate.

"Rickon?"

Rickon glowered at him. "I heard Cley talking with your Frey friend," he said. Rickon refused to call Elmar by his name, apparently he did not have the best relationship with the two Frey wards her mother had accepted, Big Walder and Little Walder, and that was spilling over onto his squire. "They said you were going south again."

He sighed. "I will be at some point Rickon, but-"

"But you just got back! You can't go now!"

"Rickon-"

"You and Robb promised you'd bring everyone back, but father's dead, your hand hurts and Robb and mother are still not here!" He was starting to scream now. Bran scrunched up his face and looked away from it. "And now you're leaving again! It's not fair!" He swept his arm across the table and scattered his food onto the floor.

"Rickon Stark!" He bellowed, leaping to his feet and staring at his youngest brother who sat back, suddenly fearful, eyes watering. He sighed and walked around the table, avoiding the spilled food. He knelt beside his brother's chair. "I know, Rickon, I know what we promised and we were wrong to say that we would be home soon. What we're fighting for now... it's so much bigger than before. We're fighting for the North now, all the North, and that means we have to be away from you." He reached out and stroked Rickon's auburn curls. "I'm sorry that we aren't here, I know things are changing, and I know you deserve more, but Rickon, these are things we must do, it's our duty as Starks."

"Father said Starks look after each other. You and Robb let Theon take Winterfell."

He bowed his head, rage burning in him. "I know," he said. "But it won't happen again. When I leave, I will instruct that there will be at least two hundred men guarding Winterfell at all times. No one will take it again. That's a promise I can keep. And there is some good news. We got Arya back, Rickon, we got your sister. I have no doubt that Robb will send her home soon, she'll help look after you."

"And mother?"

"Mother will be home as soon as she can, perhaps she'll bring Arya herself. I'll get her to write to you when I see her, I'll have her write to both of you, Bran can read it to you."

Bran, who'd been looking at his plate suddenly looked over and smiled. "I will," he said.

"You see Rickon, everything's going to look up from now on. No more harm will come to you." Rickon reached over and hugged his head tightly. He wrapped his arms around rubbed his brother's back gently. "It's all going to be okay Rickon." He had to bite back the words 'I promise', those words had been whispered to Rickon as a lie before, he couldn't do that again.

"When you go, will you fight with Robb again?" Bran asked.

"I will," he said, pulling out of the hug and looking at Bran. "Although, in truth I haven't actually fought at his side since the war started. But this time I will."

"Even with that hand?" Bran smiled at him, pointing at Tristan's claw.

He stood tall and held the crooked thing out. "Aye, even with this, you wait and see my dear Brandon, you wait and see."

* * *

He lay sprawled on the dirt once again as the crows circled above him. Not this day it seemed. He got to his feet again, snatched up his sword once more and nodded at Daryn, who nodded back.

"My Lord," Elmar approached with a skin of water and a sword under one arm. He took the water and took a swig.

"Thank you Elmar," he tossed the skin back.

"My Lord, I think you should try this one," he said and held out the training sword.

He raised an eyebrow. "I have a sword, Elmar," he held up his sword, "and it's served me well for years."

Elmar nodded, crestfallen. But as he turned back to Daryn to signal his readiness to try again, Elmar found his voice. "It's not serving you well now though. You're not getting any better."

Silence fell across the yard. He turned back, slowly, to look at his squire. "What did you say?" He said quietly, dangerously.

Elmar stiffened, then puffed his chest out just a little, meeting his stare. "My lord, you're still trying to fight as you were, perhaps a new sword, without the familiarity will serve you better."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your sword is designed so it can be used with one hand, but is better with two hands, perhaps one of these would better serve." He held out the sword again. "This one is designed to be used one handed, perhaps... with your injury..." his courage was faltering under Tristan's gaze.

"Perhaps he's right Tris," Cley piped up, stepping beside him and laying a hand on his arm. "Yes, perhaps a new sword would be better, the unfamiliarity might help you develop to compensate for your injury."

"And if it's designed to only be used one handed, you won't be instinctively trying to use it two handed," Domeric added nodded. "Elmar may be onto something."

"It can't hurt to give it a go," Daryn added.

He bit back his retort. "Fine," he took the sword, drawing it and handing his sword to Elmar. It felt awkward in his grip and too short as well. Wrong. It was just wrong. "I'll give it a go." He was already a glutton for punishment, why not try with a different sword.

He waved everyone back and took his position opposite Daryn again. Lord Hornwood got into stance and Domeric stepped between them. "Tris has got a new sword, so let's go back to basics," he said, looking between them. "Daryn, try striking, be measured, Tris, defend, nothing more."

"Fine fine," he muttered, "let's get on with it."

Domeric stepped back, cutting down with one arm. "Go." Daryn stepped forward and swung at Tristan's head. He raised his sword and blocked it. Daryn struck at his head again, once to the left, once to the right. He blocked one, then the other, stepping back, twisting the sword in his grip, trying to make it comfortable. "Again." He stepped back and hastily blocked another cut at his head, then another, then a third, then saw the cut going for his side. He stepped into the blow and forced it away. Daryn attacked again, and again, and Tristan blocked again and again and again.

"You're getting it," Daryn smiled, attacking with greater vigour and speed, the blows coming faster. He missed one, taking a blow on his lower left arm which was dangling uselessly now it wasn't on his sword. A thrust slipped past his guard and hit his chest. He grunted in pain and stepped back. Daryn let him get into stance before attacking again.

Block, block, sidestep, guide, dodge. Coming as fast as the darkness in a winter's evening, he was finding the old rhythm coming back to him. Not perfect, not even adequate really, but it was there. Twice he has to snatch back his left hand, but the footwork was there, his steps compensating for his shorter blade.

It couldn't last. Daryn landed a blow on each shoulder before he charged forward, slamming into him and driving him to the ground, his sword flying from his grip.

Out of the focus of battle, he heard the claps from the spectators. "Well done Tris!" Dom said and Elmar helped him to his feet while Cley snatched up his sword.

"Much better," Daryn added, clapping him on the back when he was back on two feet. He shook them off, staking his sword back and pointing it at Dom.

"You next, now." He'd felt something, something familiar.

They quietened around him. Dom nodded, and drew his sword.

They trained... and trained. When dusk fell he returned to his chambers, aching and sore and the next day they trained again, over and over, pausing for food and water and short rests. And the same the next day, and the next.

On the fourth day, the letter arrived.

"How could she not tell me this?!" He yelled at Luwin.

"She feared the letter might be intercepted, as she said in the opening paragraph."

"Luwin, I'll warn you, my sword arm is becoming better by the day."

"I have noticed, you've been doing well."

"But this!" He gestured to the letter from his mother. "Robb is lying in a bed, slobbering like a simpleton, while I've been here re-learning how to use a sword."

"At least he lives, and he will no doubt be making a full recovery in time," Luwin, assured him. "But your mother needs you in the south now, you can't delay. I've already sent out the summons for your army to gather, by his last letter Rodrik is already returning with prisoners from Deepwood Motte, with luck, you can leave within two weeks."

He nodded. "Good, without Robb, the war..."

"So far the situation is held, but they need direction, and that is why you are needed."

"As Robb's brother-"

"No, as his heir," Luwin said. "You must be there should the worst happen, and without him, you must step into his shoes, lead the war."

He paled at the very thought. "Then I... I should..."

"You should get back out into that courtyard and swing that sword a little more. You're going to be using it for real sooner than expected. Especially with your solution to your left hand."

He nodded. It had been another idea of Elmar's, another good idea of Elmar's. The boy was certainly proving himself a useful squire. "Is the real thing nearly ready?"

"I'll instruct Mikken to work faster," Luwin said.

"Do so, I'll tell the others, make sure they're ready."

"Before you do," Luwin said. Tristan turned to him. "There is one more matter. The Turncloak, what will you do with him?"

"What I always intended, I will kill him."

"When?" Luwin asked.

Tristan thought. His sword arm was improved, and with news like this...

"Tonight."

Dusk was painting the courtyard a bright bloody orange as Theon Turncloak was brought out of the dungeons. His shiny black hair had matted to his face, a rough scraggly beard rasped across his chin and his once fine clothes had gone to rags. Two guardsmen dragged him towards the block in the middle of the courtyard. All of Winterfell, from guardsman to gardener, from cook to cobbler had turned out to watch Theon die. Tristan waited, standing beside the block, sword held by Elmar as the traitor was brought to him. Hisses and saliva flew at Theon with every step, but the guardsmen kept him from being beaten. He would like to have let them all have their turns with him, but that was not how this was done, he'd seen father do it enough to know that it had to be done properly, no matter how he felt. Closest to the block were those that Theon had wronged most. Bran and Rickon, their wolves chained so they didn't interrupt, stared at him with pure venom; the bedmaid Kyra, who Theon had taken and raped in his father's bed, grinned as Theon was brought to the block, eager for the blood. Beth Cassel. Normally she kept the welt from her near hanging covered with a scarf, but today, the fading red mark around her neck glinted darkly against her pale skin.

Theon was dragged to a halt before him. He bit back all the personal attacks he wanted to make against Theon, and instead uttered the words he'd heard his father say time and time again. "Theon of the House Greyjoy, for treason against King Robb of the House Stark, first of his name, and the harm done to the people of Winterfell, I Tristan, of House Stark, Prince of Winterfell, do sentence you to die. Do you have any last words?"

Theon looked him hard in the eye. "Sorry about the hand."

He clenched his claw tightly. "Anything else?"

Theon shook his head. "Get it over with Stark."

Tristan nodded at the guards who forced Theon's head down and placed it on the block. He held out his hand and Elmar placed the sword in it. He looked at the blade, his face shifting and flickering in the cold steel. He looked down at Theon's neck, and brought his sword down in a single clean cut.


	66. Book 3 Lyonel I

What was the point of a door? All it did was allow people through your walls. Ever since the battle, people had been coming to see him, from his sister and mother with their words to the lowly servants with his meals. Ser Gerold came to try and coax him into armour and to take up his mace and poleaxe again, to not let his skills wane, but what did it matter, the gods had ruled against them, all because of what he had done. Had he not struck down his uncle, victory would have been theirs.

He had two places to be; here and the sept. Nothing else mattered, food had no taste, wine had no flavour and love had no warmth. But why should they? He was a kinslayer, why should the gods look kindly upon him and grace him with these pleasures when he had broken their sacred laws. Princes and paupers were equal in the eyes of the Seven, and this Prince had sinned.

But that didn't keep them away. He didn't know how many days had passed so far, dozens, he felt. They were all the same. Wake up, eat, go to the sept, pray for hours until his hands were slick with sweat dripping down his wrists like snail slime, and his knees bruised and bloody on the stone. Then return to his room, eat a flavourless meal and lie down in his sickeningly comfortable bed and sleep a fretful sleep before repeating the process again. But they kept on coming and today was no different.

A soft knock at the door slunk through the air like a snake before crawling into his ear. "Brother", her sweet voice called to him.

 _Go away, you can't be here, not near me._ He didn't answer. Maybe she'd think he was asleep, leave him to his failings. Fortune didn't favour him, for the door opened and his beloved sister entered the room. "Brother", she repeated, her soft angelic footsteps approaching the bed. His body sank a little as she sat next to him. "Lyonel... you have to get up. You can't stay here forever".

 _I'm asleep, Shireen, leave me._

She didn't. He felt the soft press of her fingers against his skull as they ran through his filthy, matted, unwashed hair, dirtying their purity to bring him comfort. _I'm not worthy_. "Lyonel, the world moves as you stay here. We need you to lead us." _Let father lead us, or mother, not me._ " _I_ need you."

He needed her as well, that was why she had to leave. Every night he needed her there, her arms around him, her soft words in his ears to send him off to sleep. She wasn't there, he couldn't let her be, she was already in his dreams. Everytime the dreams took him they were together, alone in a world without war or sin or plague or foulness. They'd laugh all day long, and hold each other all night. He was with her every moment, always in her eyes, in her life, in her arms or in her. What was this if not a warning. Not for him. He was damned already, that much he knew. But Shireen, she was perfect and pure and bright. He couldn't let her come to him that way. He couldn't deny her her place at the table of the Seven, an eternity of warmth and reward. If he denied her that then he was less than he already was and he was already less than nothing.

"Go away", he murmured, pulling his hair from her grip like a child trying to escape his mother's arms. "Leave me".

But like a mother she was persistent. Her fingers were torn from his hair but wrapped around his whole head, pulling him closer. He fought it, pulling away from her soft hold. "I said leave me", he repeated, shuffling away from her on the bed. "I don't want you here. Just leave me alone , Shireen."

"You don't mean that", she said.

"How do you know what I want?!" He replied with as much of a snarl as he could muster. "You aren't me, you don't know me, and you will leave me!"

He could feel her recoil and it cracked his frozen heart. "Brother... please..."

"Go, Shireen", _I am unworthy of you_. "Give up on this. If I return to you it will be at a time of my choosing".

"If you wish it, then I will leave you for now. But you're asking me to give up on you, and that is something that I can't do." She said those words every time he drove her away. How could she keep faith in him so long?

He heard the door open, her soft footfalls leaving through it, and then click shut again.

He met the next visitor on his return from the Sept. Lady Melisandre was not who he wanted to see, but at least she didn't come with a sickening tone of hope and pleasantness.

"My Prince", she said, her back to him as she looked out his window into the night sky. He grunted and slipped under the covers, his hair shirt rubbing against his chest roughly. "You still seek the words of the silent gods?"

He didn't reply. She turned to him. "Have they seen fit to grace you with their words and commandments?" _Of course not, and you know that, otherwise you'd be in front of a fire burning your eyes out._

"Perhaps it is because you have sinned in their eyes, or perhaps it is because there is no one there to speak."

"Perhaps", he replied, not believing it for a second. Of course the gods existed. "Would I have been punished for my sins if not?"

She looked at him with her burning red eyes, as though the fires she stared into so often were staring back. "You talk of sin and defeat like they are beholden to you alone." She replied, keeping a respectful distance. How was it that this witch knew to stay back but his perfect sister couldn't read his needs in this moment? "If your gods are truly just and omniscient, then why are you, the true inheritors of King Robert's legacy, being punished by them?"

"Because I sinned when I murdered my uncle?" What was the world like when he had to explain the sins of the world to a priest? Next there would be whores needing instruction in pleasuring others. "The throne could never be gained from sin. Never."

"Yet the person sitting there is a bastard born of incest. Joffrey called-Baratheon sits on the throne that should be your fathers, yet no god has moved to oppose him, and the supposed voice of your Seven endorses him."

"He is not the gods, he is a man." _A man unworthy to wear that crystal crown, I've met beggars and vagabonds more suited to that title than him. Something else to correct – for father and Shireen to correct._

"Is he not the voice of the gods on earth? Does he not speak for them?"

He scoffed weakly. "You ask a sinner to explain the gods... you might as well ask a septon how to murder."

"It seems you are not ready to listen or talk", she said, slinking over to his door. "When you are, I will be as well."

"I've no care for what you have to say".

She paused. "Your gods will not answer you. Will they ever tell you why they grant victory to those who commit the sin of incest with harmful intent, and defeat to he who killed for good?"

With that, she was gone and he was at peace once more.

His door was slammed open at dawn. "This ends now. Lyonel to your feet."

"M-mother", he moaned groggily, ripped from the safety of a dream to the horror of the waking world.

"Get up Lyonel, you're needed, and you have been here far too long."

He curled up again. "No. I can't."

A fist clenched in his hair and pulled him up. He gasped in pain as he saw his mother's face, all sharp lines and stone staring at him. "You can and you will Lyonel. You are acting like a child and I'll be damned if I let it continue. You are needed. You are needed by your people, your gods your father and your sister. One lost battle is not a lost war, and the war must still be fought."

"I can't moth-" she smacked him. He tasted blood on his tongue as he turned back to look at her.

"No more talk of what you can't do, not here. You are going to bathe, you are going to clean the muck from your hair and body, you're going to get dressed into clothes befitting your station as a prince of the realm, and then you are going to help us recover from the defeat on the Blackwater."

"I can't", he whispered.

She smacked him. "Have a bath prepared for my son", she called outside. A brass tub was brought in and started to be filled with water. She dropped him back on his bed and went to his wardrobe, pulling out clothes in gold cloth and black velvet. She lay them on the bed. "Brother", she called out.

Uncle Rolland entered the room. "You called, my Queen?"

She nodded sternly. "Stand guard outside my son's door. When he emerges bathed and dressed you are to bring him to me in the Chamber of the Painted Table, until he emerges in a manner befitting a prince, in a manner befitting my son, he is to remain in here. He will not go to the sept, he will not go to the privy."

"Mother!" _She can't rip the gods from me, she can't!_

She smacked him. "No more of this pathetic attitude. I laboured five hours to bring a man and a warrior into his world, not a cowardly boy who runs and hides at the first defeat." She seized him as the bath was filled with hot water. He tried to resist as she pulled at his shirt, but weeks of inaction had left him weak and feeble. _I can't even resist my own mother_. He was pathetic at that. His hair shirt pulled over his head, the coarse material ripping some of the hair from his chest. Weeks of little more than bread and water had left him pathetic and weak and he could do nothing to stop her. "Until he looks respectable I don't want to see him again. When he _is_ , bring him to me."

Without a backward glance, she swept from the room. Rolland and two men at arms stepped forward to take her place. "It's time nephew," Rolland said, a look of sad resignation on his face. "Get in the bath, or we have been instructed to force you."

He looked back at his bed, then a chink made him jerk his head back to look at his uncle again. He'd stepped forward, arms ready to lunge out and catch him. What was the point in resisting? He nodded and pushed down his britches, the cold air making him shiver in his nakedness. He slowly approached the brass tub and the steaming water inside. He looked back and Rolland nodded, half encouraging, half insistent. He gently slid one leg in, wincing at the burning heat. He pulled his leg up a little to see a line of redness. A cough from behind him told him to put his other leg in as well. Using all the strength left to his frail body, he held his body up on the rim of the tub before sliding his other leg in. He started to lower himself.

"Too hot!" He said, lifting himself up, but Rolland swept over, seized him by both shoulders and forced him under the water. He gasped as the water sloshed up his chest, hitting him full in the face and spilling over the side of the tub to patter on the floor.

"There we go my prince, not so bad once you're in, maids!" Four of the castle's maids entered at his call, clearly his mother had them all ready for this. "Scrub him, if the water gets too filthy, we'll replace it. But the Queen wants him sparkling."

Lyonel closed his eyes and subjected himself to their ministrations.

After what felt like hours, he was dragged from the tub, the maids left with the water that was near filthy black and replaced by three grooms with his clothes. "Now dress him as befits his station," Rolland told them. The clothes felt bigger on him now than they had before, but a tightening of the belt and a strap here and there and they cinched around his form.

"Nearly there now my prince," Rolland said with an encouraging smile.

"Just take me to mother, let me get this over with."

"Not yet, my prince," Rolland said, putting a hand on his chest to stop him. "First, you need to eat a proper meal."

He called out for the next set of servants and they brought in large silver plate with a whole smoked haddock on a bed of vegetables and baked bread and a large jug of clear clean water. The very sight made his mouth water. "I... shouldn't."

"You've been fasting long enough, if you like I can go and get the septon to tell you so, or you can sit down and eat that delicious fish the cooks have prepared for you."

He sat down and ate.

When Rolland pushed open the door to the chamber of the painted table, he saw his mother and Shireen sitting at one end of it. "Lyonel!" Shireen leapt to her feet, but his mother seized her arm and held her fast. She got to her own feet more slowly, her gown of gold and black, tied at the waist with a cord of black leather and a necklace hung round her neck, a silver nightingale resting above the fabric at her chest. Her hood of brown hair fell about her shoulders and down her back, held up by two long, silver pins and her eyes cut into him like daggers.

"So then, let's have a look at you," she said, standing before him. She pinched at his clothes, noting how they hung off his limbs, took him by the chin and looked into his eyes and even leaning in to smell him. "They did a good job I see," she nodded "yes, this is much better. How does it feel to be up on your feet again?"

He thought about it. "Unsteady."

"Well you'll need to find your feet, quickly, or we may all soon find ourselves without a head."

"What?"

Myrielle nodded and he heard Rolland shut the door to the chamber. "Things have not gone well for us since the retreat," she said and he felt a surge of guilt well up within him. If not for him... "Your father holds the army at Storm's End, but already has placed two lords and seven landed knights in irons for plotting to abandon him. I've been working every day to keep the lords and knights who you saved with the fleet from doing likewise, though the fleet itself is loyal as ever, so it's not like they have anywhere to go if they wanted to leave. "But now there is more bad news." She paused, waiting for him to say something, when he said nothing, she sighed. "Tarth has declared its full allegiance to the Iron Throne, declaring us all traitors."

"What?" Shireen gasped.

Myrielle nodded, lips in a thin line and swept back to her seat. Shireen made to take his arm, but Rolland stepped forwards and took it first, guiding him so he was sat opposite his mother and sister. "Since the battle we've done nothing to try and regain momentum," his mother said, looking down at the map carved in wood. "We can't know what other treacheries this will inspire. If the stormlands rise against your father, the Lannisters and Tyrells will have a land ripe for invasion, and then the tide of treasons will be too great to stem I fear."

She looked at him again, eyebrows raised expectantly.

"So what do we do?" He asked.

"That's what I'm asking you," she told him. "My father taught my brothers war, not me, your father has taught you, so what do you suggest we do?"

"I don't know-"

"Then think!" She demanded, leaning over the table, her gaze slicing into him. "What do we need to do to prevent Lord Tarth's treason spreading further?"

He thought. "Punish him for it?"

"What else?"

He thought more, some of his father's words coming unbidden to the fore of his memory. "Make sure our lords know we haven't lost yet."

She sat back. "And how do we do that?"

He looked down at the isle of Tarth, alone, isolated. "Send the fleet." He said.

His mother smiled. "And?"

"And?"

The smile became a frown. "Yes, what else will you do?"

He thought. "Send the army?"

She closed her eyes and seemed to be holding back a yell of anger. "Lyonel, I assumed the fleet would take men to besiege the castle, that's not what I'm talking about."

"Then wha-"

"Lyonel, this is a direct affront to your father's authority as king, a direct challenge to the legitimacy of the crown that _you_ will one day wear. What are _you_ going to do about it?"

"Go myself." He surprised himself with those words. He took a breath and repeated them. "Go myself to see that it is done. And be seen that I am doing it," he added when he saw his mother's mouth open with another question. He saw Shireen smile and his pride reared its head.

"What will you do, Lyonel?" His mother asked slowly, definitively.

He took a breath. "I will go with the fleet to Tarth and punish Lord Selwyn for betraying his oath to father. And I will bestow Tarth on someone more worthy."

"Again, with meaning!"

"I will take the fleet to Tarth and punish Lord Selwyn for betraying father."

"Again!"

"I will go to Tarth and punish it's lord for betraying us!" He yelled the last three words.

"Yes you will!" His mother said, getting to her feet and sweeping around the table, she pulled him up and hugged him so tightly he thought his back might snap. "Thank you for coming back," she whispered so quietly he almost didn't hear her. She kissed his forehead fiercely. "If you _ever_ act like that again so help me..." she couldn't even finish the sentence. She pulled back and held him at arm's length, feeling his muscles. "You need to get these back to what they were," she said. "Ser Gerold."

Lyonel hadn't noticed the Master at Arms standing in one corner by the door. He stalked over, felt Lyonel's arms and chest. "Not good, but I've worked with worse," he said. "My lady, if you see to assembling the fleet and invasion force, I'll get to work with the boy."

"You haven't called him boy in years," Shireen said, hurt.

"I'll stop when he's a man again," Gerold said. "Now I hope you had a good breakfast boy, because we have got a lot of work ahead of us. You'll be swinging that mace around until your arms can't lift it anymore, and then we'll be shooting arrows until your fingers bleed. We're at war, so there's no time for steady training, you'll be going to bed broken and bleeding until that fleet is ready. You understand?" He nodded. "Good."

Despite it all, he felt himself smile.


	67. Book 3 Loren I

As soon as he'd broken his fast, he left his solar. His father had wasted no time in claiming the Tower of the Hand, turning him and his household out to some rooms on the far side of Maegor's holdfast. Most of his soldiers had to return to the army outside the city, only Ser Gerold remaining to him in the Keep. His new rooms were pitiful in comparison, everything good about the Tower of the Hand was perverted in these Spartan chambers. His bed was smaller and simpler, and something about the mattress dug into his back if he slept in the wrong place. _No doubt father put it there, just waiting for the day I have to go and ask for another._ His solar was small, with one wooden desk and a chair by it, the window looking out over the rest of the keep, not one glance at anything worth looking at. The badge of King's Marshall lay on his desk, the crown and sword gathering dust. Why bother pinning it on, there was nothing worthwhile about it. He had been hand of the king, then he'd been collared and reduced to a damn dog, not to be commanded but held back, a showpiece for the world while his father directed the war effort. In return he got to sit on the small council, nod his head, shake it, agree with one person, disagree with another and be politely ignored.

"My Lord", Gerold greeted him. His ever faithful knight was waiting for him outside, with a smile on his face and a new gold chain around his neck, courtesy of a captive taken on the walls. "Where to today?" The knight had made a point of coming with him everywhere. He had served under Loren since the war began, so was his man before his father's.

"My beloved father", he replied with venom. He'd been summoned, not requested, or informed of a meeting, but summoned. "We shouldn't keep the illustrious saviour of King's Landing waiting."

It had once been his tower, he noted as he entered past the still-as-statues Lannister guardsmen at the base of it, who let him through without a nod of the head. _I will one day be your lord,_ or would he? If his father had his way, Jaime would be the heir, and with the precedent of removing white cloaks...

The tower seemed taller with its new lord in house. He'd made the trek at least daily when he had been the Hand, but it was longer, more tiresome, more wearisome when his father was at the end instead of a comfortable bed and sleep. Gerold was behind him, meaning he had some other company other than the dozens of golden lions hanging still and silent on the walls. So many damn bloody lions.

He was not met by his father at the top of the stairs, not even by his chamberlain, no, Loren Lannister would be met by a lifeless wooden door. He tried the heavy iron handle, but it was locked. Curling his fingers into a fist he hammered on the wood. After an infuriating wait, the door was politely opened. "Lord Loren", his father's thin faced chamberlain said with a bow. "Lord Tywin will see you now."

He pushed past them and marched for the rooms where his father would be working, where he had worked before the Blackwater...

As he approached the room, the door opened and out marched a familiar sight. "Lord Jacelyn", he said, bowing smiling in greeting. _Who knew there'd be someone here I'm happy to see._

"Lord Loren", he replied. His iron hand was gone, replaced by a silver appendage that glittered in the gloomy tower. "How have you been?"

"Well enough", he lied. "And you, how has the watch faired since the battle?"

"I can't say I know for certain, Lord", Bywater replied, smiling. "I am no longer a member of the watch. Your father has given me a stipend to live off until I can claim Castle Darry. He's given command of the Gold Cloaks to one of his Westermen, Ser Addam Marbrand".

 _So you already have the watch father._ The gold cloaks disliked command from the outside, but Addam was the sort of man men wished to follow, he would serve, and he was his father's man. "I see", he said, nodding. "Well I hope to see you some time, you should join me for supper some day."

"It would be an honour, my lord", he replied, heading for the door Loren had just come from. _I wonder how many watchmen would rather follow Jacelyn than Marbrand?_ He mused, before entering his father's rooms.

Lord Tywin Lannister was seated beneath the window, the light from the sun catching the desk and allowing him to work. Even when writing he was tall and proud. He glanced over when the door opened. "Loren," he set his quill aside.

"My lord", he replied, bowing his head. He turned to Ser Gerold. "Please, may I have the room with father, Ser Gerold?" Ser Gerold bowed once to him and once to Lord Tywin before departing, closing the door behind him. His father's lips thinned. _Yes father, I gave an order in your presence, strike me down_.

"It's good you've come", his father said, standing up from his desk. "Come", he led him over to a map table.

"Has news arrived father?" He asked. The Blackwater had been such a rush and confusion for all sides that they'd spent the last weeks trying to learn everything they could. _Am I about to be given a marching order?_

His father nodded and leant over the map table. "Lord Stannis' flight to the south has driven him back to Storm's End. He's gathered around there with his host, but woodsmen and rangers are screening the Kingswood, preventing us from learning too much about what happens, while his fleet sits at Dragonstone, immobile and passive. Varys has heard that Lyonel Baratheon has taken ill and is on the verge of death." Lord Redwyne has sent word back to prepare his ships to sail. Until then, we have Stannis contained in the south, he suffered many casualties on the Blackwater and it will take time for him to ready himself again."

"What news of Robb Stark?"

"His men have fled the Westerlands to Riverrun, where he gathers more men to him, from the Trident and the Northmen. Harrenhall's guard grows stronger every day. He seems to be like the tortoise, huddling inside his shell, wondering where to go next. The Greyjoy's are being driven from the north as we speak, that doomed invasion ready to fail. He may be waiting for more men from the north to join him. But that will take time."

 _The Young Wolf, waiting. You say fled father, in reality the wolf's belly was full on our fat and he's returning home to defend his pack._ It didn't sit right with him that Robb Stark was waiting. If he was waiting he was planning, and if they didn't counter that plan... "The boom towers are being repaired and reinforced, and we hold the Rush", he said. "We could march against Stark now, while Stannis licks his wounds. Or we could let Stark wait and push south to crush Stannis' mainland host while it rests. This is our chance, while they are both immobile".

"No", his father said coldly. "You will wait here, we hold the capital. With the approaching wedding of Joffrey to the Tyrell girl, we cannot let the Tyrell host outnumber us here, nor will the Tyrells let the city fall completely to us. The wedding must happen first."

"We have a betrothal", Loren pointed out.

"At the cost of another, Sansa Stark had a betrothal as well. The Tyrells can't turn to Stannis now they've helped bloody him, and to declare themselves Kings of the Reach would turn half their lords against them to gain Highgarden. They need the legitimacy of the marriage, and until then, they will not act in great force."

 _Damn bloody politics_ , Loren cursed. In the company, this wouldn't have been a problem, they'd be ranging south at this very moment to smash Stannis' weakened force, but no, here blood must come on the marriage bed before an army can march. He would later wish that he'd excused himself then, but something made him speak. "I could compel the army to march, father. I am the King's Marshall."

Lord Tywin's bald head turned to him. "King's Marshall", he mused. "No. You will compel no one to go anywhere. This wedding is of import. Until then, we wait and determine what we must do from there."

"Nothing", Loren asked, incredulous. "You truly suggest that we do nothing?"

"Not nothing", he said. "I've sent Lord Tarly and Ser Gregor north. They will establish themselves at Duskendale and hold the north against any assault and to force Stark to maintain at least a token force at Harrenhal." So his father wasn't completely squandering his abilities. "You have other ideas?"

He nodded. He'd had little else to think about in the past weeks but how to progress the war. "We should send a force to secure the rafts that took you and Lord Tyrell to the city", he said. A small force already guarded most of them, and some had been brought down to the city for ease of ferrying the Tyrell army across the Rush. However Lord Tywin had seen fit to keep most of it away. He said it was so the Rush didn't get clogged up with rafts, but Loren had to wonder how much he wanted the Tyrell host kept, for the most part, on the other side of the Rush. "I know some have gone already, but I'd propose more. When the war begins in earnest we can use them to push north into the God's Eye and land a host between Harrenhal and Riverrun, dividing the two hosts of the Young Wolf. Then we trap the one in Harrenhal and could destroy half Stark's host."

His father regarded him coldly. _Why do those eyes never give anything away?_ "Not a poor suggestion. I will select one thousand Lannister men and two thousand Tyrell men and dispatch them to the rafts."

"Father I could-"

"No", he said. "I must make sure this order is followed, which means it comes from the Hand of the King." _And then you claim my invasion plan too, is that how this works father?_

"I see", he said. "Well, unless there was anything more you need, father..."

"Nothing", he said. "There are affairs of state to see to." _And the King's Marshall is no longer needed._

He buried his anger, turned, and left the Tower of the Hand.

"My lord?"

He turned. "Sorry Gerold," he said, shaking his head at himself, he'd stormed right past his knight without noticing.

Gerold shrugged. "Don't worry my lord, where are we going?"

"Anywhere but here," he said, storming off down the stairs.

"Could you be more specific my lord?" Gerold asked.

At the base of the stairs he stopped and thought, waiting for Gerold to catch up. "Have my horse saddled, we're going into the city."

"Lord Loren!" He turned to see the Lord of Highgarden waddling over, his badge of office as Master of Ships proud on his chest. He clasped Loren's hand without invitation.

"Lord Tyrell," he replied. He turned his head to Gerold. "See to it, I'll join you shortly." As Gerold left he fixed a smile on his face and turned back to Mace Tyrell. "How can I help you, my lord?"

"I was simply wondering how your duties were going, you are the very first King's Marshall, no doubt the best choice for the job since my own attentions are focussed on the navy."

"And the upcoming royal nuptials surely?"

Lord Mace laughed. "Yes of course," he said, "we plan to have the ceremony on the first day of the new year, the new century even, a century of lion, stag and rose, leading Westeros to a brighter future."

 _That's months away you bastard!_ "Yes, a brighter future for all, where we may call war a thing of the past."

"Oh it won't be long now my lord, soon enough we'll be marching against our enemies. I await only your direction, I will take to the field against Stannis Baratheon or the Young Wolf and bring victory for the king."

"And when the time comes I will wish you all the fortune the gods can spare," _you'll need it._

"Ha, keep your fortune my lord, I'd rather have victory."

"I'm sure you would my lord, if it please you, I have duties to attend to."

As he turned to leave, Lord Tyrell did speak up. "There was one other thing, my lord."

He turned to Mace, eyebrow raised. "My daughter will be arriving at the capital soon. The entrance of the new Queen requires the finest honour guard imaginable. I can think of no finer than you, the man who held the city long enough for reinforcements to arrive. His grace has agreed to release Ser Balon of the Kingsguard to go, but it would be a greater sign of our unity if the heir to Casterly Rock were to accompany the brightest flower of Highgarden."

Part of him was tempted, sorely tempted, to leave his father's shadow for a while. But the risk was too great, after all, who was to say what father would do with what little he had left in King's Landing while he was gone. No he had to stay to protect that meagre lot and deny his father another victory over him in this endless war of shame. "I'm sorry Lord Mace, while it would be my ultimate pleasure to ride alongside your daughter, my duties require me to stay here."

"Are you sure my lord, you seem in need of some air."

"You are correct on that count my lord, I'm off to get some now. Do pass my apologies on to the Lady Margaery, and I wish her all the best for her journey," _even more for her wedding._

He pulled the heavy yellow cloak tighter around his body, hoping to obscure the lion on his breast as they wound down the Street of Sisters. The people moved to get out of their way, but other than that, they paid him no heed, unable to see his face beneath his hood. No, they were too busy rushing over to the great cart at one side, ringed by a dozen Tyrell soldiers, spears held tight as more of them stood on and around the cart, passing food out to the people. "Our Lady Margaery, your future queen, sends you this food to sustain you," a crier called out to the gathering crowd. "She is on her way now, with food and comfort for more of you, your new queen will see you fed and warmed, no soul will be beneath her heart, accept this first gift from Lady Margaery, the first of a great many!"

Loren shook his head and nudged his horse onwards. "Thanks to us they have people to woo," Gerold muttered, moving alongside him, his own cloak of deep blue fastened at the collar. He kept his hood down, his shaven head less likely to attract attention than Loren's golden curls. "These Tyrells..."

"They've been bringing food in by the wagon load," Gerold told him. "Every day, food is sent to the poor in the name of Queen Margaery, she'll get quite the welcome when she arrives I don't doubt."

"Just so long as they don't use those spears as forks, I need them battle ready for when father finally allows us to march."

"If you spend your time waiting for your father, you'll get nothing done, if we need to act, why don't we just act."

"I'd love nothing more," Loren replied. "But he _is_ still my father, the head of House Lannister, and the Hand of the King, those all mean something." He shook his head, "I didn't come here to think of my father. I came to forget him and the whole bloody lot of them. Here, this will do." They'd arrived outside a small alehouse, two storeys, it couldn't even truly be called an inn, but it was more than enough for what he wanted.

"Are you sure, my lord?"

He nodded, swinging down from his horse. Gerold raised sceptical eyebrows, but followed him in tying his horse up outside and slipping into the alehouse.

It was a dank place, the tables half full despite being midday, and at each table was at least one man in a green shirt with a little golden rose sewn on the breast, a Tyrell man, regaling the people around him with tales of the Reach and victory. He nodded over to a side table and took a seat there while Gerold went to get them a couple of ales.

"And that was when I saw the banner of the Swanns of the traitor Stannis, and rode hard towards it..." he caught from a particularly well groomed man of the reach at the next table. He frowned. The Swanns?

Gerold returned with two mugs in hand. He took one and drank the deep amber liquid, it was cheap, poor quality and yet tasted far more true than wine these days. "What do you think?" He asked his knight. "Let's say the gods intervene and father lets us march tomorrow, who should we go against first, Lord Stannis, or King Robb?"

"Tough to say," Gerold replied, taking a swig and smacking his lips together. "Neither of them are moving, I'd expect that of Stannis given his defeat, but Robb Stark, he's been like a hare since the beginning, darting this way and that, seems odd. I'd wait for more information first."

"A mistake I think, we've waited long enough," Loren replied. "We've waited too long already, we should push one way or the other. Lord Stannis is weakened, perhaps as weak as he ever will be. He's also the closest, we can get to Storm's End far more quickly than we can get to Riverrun. But as you say, Robb Stark is quick, if we go to Storm's End, who can say how quickly he can be where we least expect him. But go to Riverrun, what will Stannis do with the time we give him?" He shook his head. This was something the Company never had to deal with, war on a continent wide scale.

"So what would you do, if you had to march tomorrow?"

"Stannis," he said a thought. "Robb Stark will take another year or more of campaigning to deal a blow against, but we have this opportunity to cripple Stannis now, I'd leave half of the army here, take the rest and march on Storm's End. But it's all scholarly of course, my father won't allow it."

"Another drink then?" Gerold asked.

"Another drink."

As Gerold went for more ale, Loren sat back and listened to the man of the reach regale all his listeners with his exploits in the battle.

"I have a thought, my lord," Gerold said, slipping back into the seat opposite. "Who says we need the army, you accomplished a great deal with those archers we sent after the Baratheons."

"They never did come back to claim their reward, did they?" Gerold shook his head. "Probably killed, caught by Stannis' men, or caught up in the battle and died there. Pity, I could have had two more lords loyal to me."

"Only one new lord, they only got one brother," Gerold pointed out, grinning.

"True," Loren took another swig of the ale that was fast growing on him. "But that one was good enough to leave us his army."

"Don't you have your brother to thank for that?"

"Urgh, don't remind me, he already does that enough."

Gerold laughed.

"Is something funny sers?"

They looked over at the man of the reach who looked annoyed at having been interrupted mid tale.

"Plenty," Loren replied, raising his mug. "Like the fact that you say you killed a dozen knights."

"I did," the man protested, puffing his chest out. He was no more than twenty years, lanky, with a mop of pale hair, and carried himself as a knight, but he didn't seem to have his own colours. "I was knighted for my achievements in the battle of the Blackwater."

"You came with the Tyrell army?"

He nodded. "I had the honour of riding in the van."

"Really, and did I hear you say that you fought Ser Donnel Swann?" Ser Donnel was the brother of Ser Balon, and after the death of Renly he had gone over to King Stannis. Loren had heard nothing of him falling in the battle.

"Fought and killed."

Loren shook his head beneath his cloak. This wouldn't do, not here, where he'd come to escape this very thing from his father. "What is your name, ser?"

"Ser Martyn Lockmead, sworn sword to House Tyrell." He had the pride that only a newly made knight could bear in his voice.

"Well Ser Martyn, I regret to inform you that the Swann banners had left the field long before your van arrived on it."

The room fell quiet as other looked between Ser Martyn and this hooded man who dared speak against a knight.

"Are you questioning my victory ser?"

"Questioning?" Loren asked. "I'm denying it."

Ser Martyn glared at him and stalked over, hand drifting to his sword.

Loren gestured for Gerold to stay seated and rose to meet him.

"Take that back, and I may decide not to run you through." He drew his sword of straight, cold steel.

"Not in here!" The alehouse owner, a large bellied man cried out.

"Show your face, you who would challenge me!" Martyn demanded, ignoring the alehouse owner's plea.

"Gladly." He reached up and pulled down his hood, throwing the cloak back off his shoulders to reveal his scarlet doublet and the lions woven into it.

"It's Lord Loren!" One of the patrons gasped in awe.

"It's our saviour!" Cried another one.

But Loren only had eyes for Martyn who had just frozen in place, looking at his doublet with wide eyes. "Come Ser Martyn, out your sword away, let us clarify this disagreement outside, shall we?" Martyn nodded dumbly and fumbled with his sheath. "Maybe take your drink with you," Loren suggested, before leading the man outside, into the street.

"My lord, I nev-" Martyn said when the door had shut, but never had time to finish before Loren had seized him by the shirt and rammed him into a post.

"My father," he snarled in Martyn's face, "is the head of my house and Hand of the King. That gives him the position and authority to lie about his role in my victory. You, on the other hand, are an upjumped squire who thinks that cutting down a few levied men in retreat makes you a soldier. Lie about your role in _my_ victory in my hearing again and I'll have you gelded and sent to join the choir boys. You understand?" Martyn nodded, shaking."Now give me your drink." Martyn handed the half filled mug to him and Loren through it over his stomach, staining his shirt and the top of his breeches.

"What?" Martyn said dumbly.

"I'm doing you a favour with that smell. Now you can say to your friends that you spilled your drink rather than pissed yourself. Now run away little man." Martyn ran away.

Loren re-entered the alehouse to find the keeper by their table, counting coins onto it. "What's going on?" He asked.

"M'lord Loren," the keeper bowed his head. "I was just paying you back for the ale you had m'lord."

"Why?"

"You saved us, I can't accept money from you."

Loren shook his head. "You can and will, I insist, keep your money, and I'll have another one as well," he tossed a silver coin on the pile."

"My lord I-"

"Take my father's money, good man." He placed his hand on the man's shoulder. "And please, another ale for me and my friend here."

The keeper, his face bewildered with awe, walked away.

Before Loren could sit down a brown fuzz slammed into him. It was a young woman, who had caught him in a hug so tight she was going to leave marks. "I never thought I'd meet our saviour in person!" She cried. "Thank you lord, thank you."

Then they all came, giving him their thanks all at once and leaving the Tyrell men alone to their lies. One thanked him for saving her beloved who served in the city watch. A couple, the woman in the later months of pregnancy asked permission to name their child after him if it was a boy. Three young men asked him to get them into the city watch, one boy, no older than five, had the gall to ask him to take him on as a squire. Before he knew it he was sharing drinks with the entire alehouse, listening, speaking and most importantly, smiling. Here were people who knew who won the battle, who knew what he had done, and appreciated the efforts he had made. In the corner of his eye he saw the Tyrell men file out, shooting him dark looks. He went back to speaking with the patrons and owner of the alehouse. That man would be ending the day with a nice hefty bag of silver, and more than one of the patrons took a coin for good luck as well. Never before had spending his father's money felt so good.


	68. Book 3 Margaery I

"Margaery, the escort is here."

"Thank you Ser Arryk," she said, smiling at the knight as he looked in through the carriage window. "We should go and meet them ourselves, be on your best behaviour ladies," she grinned at her ladies and handmaidens, who giggled as they prepared to follow her from the carriage. They dismounted at the bridge near the town of Smokeshelm, almost directly due west of King's Landing, straddling the Blackwater Rush. It was a small place, no walls to watch over it, and only the wooden keep of the Knight of Smokeshelm and his pitiable garrison, half the buildings in the town were taverns to accommodate the only other thing of note there, the bridge.

Tyrell soldiers had taken position in the town, lining the road and manning the bridge into the royal demesnes of the crownlands. After weeks of travel, they were finally entering the last leg of the journey, and would be escorted the rest of the way by representatives from King's Landing, as befit her station as the soon to be queen. "Who do you think will come?" She heard Elinor ask Mira.

"Cersei was escorted by Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, as well as two other councillors and a hundred knights of the King's own household," Mira replied, "surely they would do no less for lady Margaery?" In fact, her brothers had been in charge of attempting to arrange their escort appropriately; her entry into the city had to be perfect.

On the bridge stood a knight in gleaming white plate, one that Margaery did not know, next to him was a man in Lannister crimson, holding the twinned lion and stag banner of the king. Beyond the bridge she saw two lines of horses stretching out, mounted by men in gleaming plate and burning sigils. She frowned, this didn't seem right. She approached the knight of the Kingsguard, who knelt before her, head bowed. "Lady Margaery."

"Ser knight," she replied, smiling widely, "might I have the honour of your name?"

He got to his feet. "I am Ser Balon Swann, my lady, acting Lord Commander of the Kingsguard until the release of Ser Jaime Lannister. I am to command your escort of honour into the capital. I have fifty knights with me, men of good hearts and true steel, sworn among them to Casterly Rock, King's Landing and Highgarden. On my oath, no harm will befall you for the journey."

 _That couldn't have sounded more rehearsed if he tried_. She could tell from the way Ser Balon held himself that he was a warrior, and his reputation on the tourney field spoke for him, but fine words were clearly not his strong suit. "And I do not believe I could be in safer hands," she told him. "But, forgive me Ser Balon, but I was led to believe that more members of the Council would be accompanying me."

"I'm afraid that you were misinformed, my lady, by word of the Queen Regent, the council is needed to remain in the capital and continue directing the war."

She frowned. "Not even Lord Loren?"

Ser Balon shook his head. "Lord Loren's duties as the King's Marshall keep him too busy to exit the keep, particularly with the enemies of the king still at large."

Damn.

" _The people of the capital praise Lord Loren to the skies above, they like our food, but he saved them from swords."_

" _And it is far easier to love someone standing between you and a blade than bringing you food," Margaery finished, her mouth thin. "Would it be possible to have Lord Loren as part of our escort to the capital, it would do a great deal for us if we can share some of that love."_

It seems that part had not gone to plan.

"Very well Ser Balon, then we place ourselves in your capable hands." She returned to the carriage, leant her head in through the window. "I will rejoin you shortly my dears," she told her handmaidens, "but I must speak with grandmother first."

She moved to the second carriage of the caravan, smaller than the first but furnished with far more cushions. Her grandmother was resting back against the soft backed seat specially made for her. She looked peaceful, but when Margaery stepped inside her eyes flashed open, her wrinkled face twitching and grey hair tied up neatly and hidden beneath a soft cowl. "Hello dearest," Olenna Tyrell said as Margaery sat opposite her.

"Lord Loren isn't with the escort," she said.

"Is he not?" Olenna sighed. "Pity."

"Grandmother, this is a significant blow to our ambitions."

"Not as much as you seem to believe Margaery," Olenna replied. "We may not be able to so easily tie ourselves to Lord Loren's victories but-"

A knocking on the carriage door made then stop and look over. She opened the slot in the door and an armoured hand slipped a letter through. She snatched it up and closed the door to the fist. Slitting open the letter and scanned it over. "Oh by the Seven, Loras!"

"What has my grandson done now?" Olenna asked.

Margaery sighed. "He says that father went himself to try and persuade Lord Loren to come. We told him that it should be him."

"I warned you this might happen," Olenna said, closing her eyes and leaning back. "Loras wasn't going to do it."

"But with Garlan injured, it was up to Loras. Father would hardly go to Lord Tywin's second son with tact."

"You remember how Loras came back to the camp after Storm's End," Olenna said. "Ranting like an old man and raging like a bull, he holds the Lannisters to blame for Renly's death, and as he was acting Hand of the King, Lord Loren in particular." Margaery did remember, it had taken all that Garlan and she could do to persuade him not to try and hunt down Lord Loren Lannister when he got to the city. Still, they'd expected more than this.

"He's probably right," Margaery said. The arrow attack, that came very close to ending the lives of both Renly and Stannis certainly worked in the favour of the Lannisters a great deal, though the survival of Lord Stannis meant that he gained a powerful army for the Battle of the Blackwater, an army still largely intact, according to reports.

"Probably, but not certainly, and besides, we're in bed with the Lannisters now, Loras is going to have to behave himself to keep this relationship sweet in its infancy. At least until you provide an infant prince," Olenna said. Margaery nodded. As it turned out, it was a relief that Renly's seed hadn't taken within her, if she'd had an heir with him this would all be different. House Tyrell would likely be fighting for the rights of an infant and half their vassals would be courting either Stannis or Tywin. "Come now," Olenna said, sitting forward. "Let's not focus so much on this one failing, together with House Lannister we have the resources to overcome the future and push forward with confidence. Our entrance into the city is already being taken care of by the boys of the family, so you remember all we have been told of the King?"

Margaery nodded. Lord Tyrion had told them a great deal during the negotiations, and the spies they sent amongst his followers said just as much and what they said was promising. They spoke of how Joffrey could be easily raised to anger when harm came to his family, his Lannister cousins at Oxcross for example. They should well be able to use that to get him to protect them. He was still showing some of the recklessness and immaturity of his young years. But these were all things that Margaery could work with. "I have everything prepared grandmother."

"I don't doubt it. But there is more than that. We may not have been able to so easily tie ourselves to Lord Loren's victory, but could he prove to be an ally? The man disappeared for years, and I have heard interesting rumours regarding him and his father."

Margaery glanced back at the letter and shook her head. "No, Loras says that Lord Loren has started frequenting the lower taverns, and has a habit of driving off any Tyrell man who claims to have played a part in the battle. I'll do what I can, but things will have to change for him to take us seriously."

"There's nothing to be done?"

"Well..." Margaery said, "father says that Lord Loren has been pressing for quick action in the war, perhaps if we backed him up on that?"

Olenna nodded, deep in thought. "Perhaps. I suspect Lord Tywin would be keen to put our numbers to use, and if Lord Loren were to march with a Tyrell army it would give us the opportunity to work on him. Something to consider at least. What about the Stark girl, and the last Targaryen?"

"We're not planning on meeting them at the moment," Margaery told Olenna. "Our position isn't so secure yet that we want to draw too much attention to Joffrey's previous betrothed and the last woman of the old dynasty."

"Agreed, keep them at arm's reach until we know more about where we stand. Still, they could have useful information, they have been under the Lannister regime since it began. And the Stark girl, if the boys were all to fall, unlikely, but possible, she could be the key to the North."

"I'll take her close if I must," Margaery said. "I'm sure Mira will be able to befriend her easily enough."

"Splendid, it seems you have things in hand." Olenna settled back again. "Now my dear, leave me to rest my eyes a little, I fear I must dine with your mother later and I'll need to prepare my mind."

Margaery bit back her retort, her grandmother's tongue savaged anyone and everyone, but did she have to speak in such a manner to her own family? "Very well grandmother." She leaned in and brushed a kiss across her grandmother's forehead before slipping out of the carriage.

"Was your grandmother well my lady?" Mira asked as Margaery returned to her own carriage.

"Yes, thank you Mira," she replied with a smile. "Could you fetch me ink and paper, I must pen a missive to my brother." Willas was not travelling with them, but he always had sage advice for her and the family, and was in charge of Highgarden in their absence. "How many more ravens do we have trained to fly to Highgarden?" She asked.

"Two I believe," Elinor replied.

She nodded, she could write one more now and save the other for if they needed it closer to the time.

After recording the events, assuring Willas of her safety, and asking him on his health, she sealed the letter and made to move away when a thought struck her.

She took another page, dipped the quill in ink again, and started scratching out a message to King's Landing.


	69. Book 3 Shireen I

She rested her arms on the battlements as she looked down over the hard craggy points of Dragonstone and the roiling seas beyond. She could just make out movement on the beach, the tops of banners, the sand kicked up by marching men and flying horses as five thousand soldiers prepared to sail for Tarth to punish Lord Selwyn for his betrayal of her father. Somewhere down there, Lyonel was with them, training with the archers, talking with the lords or letting Ser Gerold forge him back into the warrior he had been before. She wanted to be there, but her mother had told her not to go. Lyonel had spent weeks in his chambers, and he needed to be strong, not hanging off his sister or his mother. So she spent her days praying for their victory, entertaining the daughters of knights and lords and fretting about what would happen if they failed again.

"My lady." She turned to see Ser Richard approaching her.

"Ser Richard, how can I help?"

"Your mother, the Queen, demands your presence at the chamber of the Painter Table, at once."

Shireen nodded. "I'm on the way." Her mother had gotten more and more demanding since the Blackwater, she couldn't even remember the last time her mother had asked her for something, it was always a demand. _Is that what Queens are like?_

She heard her mother a whole corridor away from the chamber, ringing through the crack left in the doorway. "If Magister Melios is prepared to donate the funds he promises, then we'll offer him the sanctuary he wants. Send four ships, remind him that slavery is not acceptable in the Seven Kingdoms, but if he is prepared to lose them we will offer him sanctuary. Understand? Good, now go, there are a great many matters that I need to attend to." A few seconds later the door opened fully and their chamberlain, maester Pylos and a flamboyantly dressed foreigner walked out. The chamberlain and maester Pylos bowed to her as a princess while the foreigner looked at her as a woman before they moved on and Richard stepped in to the chamber.

"Your Grace, the princess."

Shireen stepped in after Ser Richard. Her mother was sat alone at the far end of the table, dwarfed by the Seven Kingdoms, her hair, normally so neatly set was in disarray around her crown, and her dress was skewed out of place, a half eaten plate of food sat just off Bear Island in the north while water spilled along the narrow sea from her overturned cup. A pile of papers was balanced precariously on the Wall and various figurines representing the known armies of the Seven Kingdoms was spread across the south. King's Landing surrounded by lions and roses wolves around Riverrun and stags scattered between Storm's End and Dragonstone. Myrielle looked up her face flustered and hawk-eyes fierce, but they softened a little when they rested on her. "Ah, Shireen, come in, that will be all Ser Richard, you can wait outside now."

Richard bowed and left, the door clicking shut behind him. Shireen stood awkwardly beneath Dorne while her mother regarded her coolly from beyond the Wall. "You wanted to see me, my queen?" She bowed her head to her mother.

"Oh don't be like that," her mother beckoned her over impatiently. "There's no one else here and I'm still your mother."

Her face split in a wide smile and she hurried around the table, behind her mother's chair, and hugger her tightly from behind. Her mother hugged her arm back, caressing along the hard skin of her greyscale scars. "What do you need from me mother?"

"More than a hug, I'm sad to say," she said, tapping her arm to make her break her hug.

Up close she could see the hint of dark circles under her mother's eyes, barely hidden by makeup. "What's wrong mother?"

"Everything," Myrielle whispered. Then she sat up straight, shook her head and snatched up her cup, filling it with more water. "And it will get worse if we don't act. Which is why I need you."

"Me?"

Myrielle fixed her with a glare. "Yes Shireen. I'd hoped to spare you from this, I'd hoped that your father would be able to sail to King's Landing, sweep the Lannisters away in one fell blow and take the Kingdoms. No longer. Even if we could take King's Landing tomorrow, there would be more wars to fight as we bring the Reach, the Westerlands and the North to heel. This was will be hard and dangerous and will require more violence and sacrifice from us all. I can't have you keeping out of it any longer."

"Keeping out of it?"

"Yes, you will have to do more, more than provide distraction and relief and pray for our success. There is more to war than swords and lances, there are allies to court, friends to reassure, supplies to be managed and legitimacy to be gained. While your father and brother focus on the war, it will be up to us to manage these things."

"But... how?"

"It's not as daunting as it sounds," her mother assured her, taking her hand and gently squeezing it. "It doesn't require more than you've been taught. Cressen has been teaching you your sums and the names and numbers of the nobility, and I've hammered a few courtesies into you over your childhood. But I don't have time to school you word for word, there is too much to be done, you're going to be carrying a heavy weight."

She swallowed.

"Are you willing to help?"

She looked at the strain her mother was under, remembered Lyonel's fears and his seclusion from the world, and remembered what they were fighting for. "I am."

Her mother reached out and took a sheet of paper that she had set aside. "You remember Lord Sunglass?"

Shireen nodded. Lord Sunglass was pious lord, as often found in the sept than seated in his hall. "I do?"

Myrielle passed her the piece of paper. "He has... concerns about the war. I need you to allay them."

"Me?" She flushed red at her squeak. "Why me?"

"Because Lord Sunglass knows of your piety, you have prayed with him in the sept haven't you? You can get through to him far more easily than I can."

"But I-"

Myrielle took her hand and squeezed it lightly. "You can do this Shireen. It's simple enough. Listen to his concerns, assure him that we are by no means beaten, and promise him reward for serving us loyally. If you can, get him to accompany your brother to Tarth, then he can remember what happens if we are betrayed." _Just that, nothing too small then mother._ "If you're worried, wear your green dress with the silver threads."

"Why?"

"It plunges my dear."

She'd been red before but now she was positively scarlet. "Mother!" She'd worn that dress only the once before, and had kept it out of sight ever since.

"But I'm sure you won't need it," Myrielle assured her, her lips curved in a half smile. "Lord Sunglass will be in the sept at midday, he will be expecting me, hopefully your presence will be a surprise. Keep him good and with us."

"I... yes mother." Still flushing after her mother's comments, Shireen hugged her once more before leaving the room.

* * *

Lord Sunglass was knelt before the altar of the Father, hands clasped tightly and lips moving silently. Shireen waited for him to finish, moving to the Altar of the Crone and bowing her head. _Show me the path, my lady._ As Lord Sunglass got to his feet, she stepped towards him. "My Lord Sunglass," she curtsied as he turned to her.

"Princess Shireen." He smiled. He was dressed in a woollen shirt, his sigil sewn on the front, with his cloak held by a simple clasp at his throat. "I'm glad to find you well."

"And I you, my lord," she replied. "Although, I hear that perhaps all is not well with you. You have written to my mother with a number of concerns. I hope that I can put them to rest."

The smile on Lord Sunglass' face faltered. Her mother had been right, he hadn't been ready for her. "I... yes... I was going to speak to your mother about this."

"My mother sent me to speak with you, I hope I can answer any concerns you may have." She nearly choked at how formal she sounded.

Lord Sunglass bristled. "Sent you did she?"

"I didn't meant that, I meant, I thought," she caught her tongue before it ran off completely. "My lord, if you have a problem with the way the war is being fought-"

"I appreciate your efforts, my lady, but I really did need to speak with the Queen about this." Lord Sunglass cut across her.

"My lord-"

"Princess, I would be happy to pray with you, but please, leave these matters for me and your mother."

 _Well that's it then, so much for what mother said._ She nodded. "I understand, my lord." As Lord Sunglass knelt again before the Father, Shireen took her place at the altar to the side, the altar of the Mother.

She made to turn but her eyes caught on the carved altar, the empty place where the statue had been and the scuff marks caused by warhammers and longaxes. She'd been knelt on the floor as the horrors in red charged to desecrate the sept that hadn't fully recovered. Lyonel had come bursting through the door then, bow in hand, soldiers at his back. But he wasn't here now, he was outside, preparing for war, he couldn't come in now. Her mother was sat at the Chamber of the Painted Table, trying to hold everything together; she needed Shireen to help her, not the other way around. She felt so small beside them, but she could do this surely.

She whispered a plea for pardon to the gods before turning back to Lord Sunglass. "What do you pray for, my lord?"

He halts his own prayer and looks to her. "For my family, my land, my people, and a hundred other things."

 _So, family first then._

"How does your family fare during these dark times?"

"Still at Sweetport Sound, and well, as far as I know, but I haven't seen them in some time, and much could have changed."

She wrapped her fingers around his clasped hands, pulled them to her face and kissed his fingers. "I understand my lord, my own father is at Storm's End and I have no idea how he fares. The horror of not knowing... I find what solace I can in the gods, but even that does not entirely warm my heart."

"I know," he sounded relieved, glad for Shireen understanding the trials of faith. So few of the lords or even septons of Westeros truly understood this, and it was welcome to speak to one who did. "I pray for the aid of the gods, and wish there was more I could do."

"I understand, I have to do everything I can for my father, even though I have no idea what state he's in, he could be dying and I don't know. But I will always keep going, for him, for my mother, for my brother, for all those who follow us."

He looked at her with surprise. "Why so? It is our duty to follow you."

"Because I cannot give less to my family than I would ask others to do. It may be your duty to serve us, but it is ours to protect you from the consequences of doing so. If you think that we are no longer doing so, then we are doing something wrong." He nodded, slowly, chewing over her words. "Do you think we aren't, my lord?"

"No I- no. You and your mother are taking my concerns to heart, and I am grateful for it. I only worry about the strength of the foe we face, what happens if we fail."

"I have the same fears, my lord, but because I know what happens to me if we fail. I die, my family dies, because we have committed ourselves to this cause, we will uproot the Lannister, restore the rightful throne, or we will die."

"And you would ask us to do the same, ask me to leave my children and wife to the mercies of the Lannisters."

In that moment, Shireen knew she had him. "No my lord, I would ask you to help us rid King's Landing of the Lannisters once and for all."

"We tried, princess."

"And next time we will succeed."

"Forgive me, princess, but I don't see that."

"Then we will show it to you, my lord," she got to her feet. "My brother is soon to sail for Tarth. Go with him, lend him your blade and you will see that we are still able to win this war."

"I-" Lord Sunglass paused, looking her in the eye, a curious glint in his blue gaze. "Very well, princess, you have earned that much from me." He bowed. "I will prepare."

She held her breath until he had passed from the room, then let it out in a single low hiss. She turned back to the gods, and knelt again, whispering her thanks to then for their guidance.

"You got to him then."She jumped as she stepped out of the sept, putting a hand to her breast as she turned to see Uncle Rolland waiting beside the door, arms folded. "And you didn't even have to use your breasts."

Her face burned. "U-uncle! I am your niece!"

He laughed, sauntering over. "I only jest child." He threw an arm around her shoulder and squeezed her close. Unable to resist a hug, she wrapped her arms around his muscled torso and squeezed him back, eyes closed. "You did well, your mother will be proud of you."

"Thank you," she felt her chest swell with pride. "Was there anything else, uncle?"

He nodded, pulling apart from her. "Your brother and I are set to sail tomorrow. He wanted to meet you once more before he went, he asks if you could join him on the hill."

"Of course I can."

Rolland smiled. "You always make time for him."

"Of course I do."

He shook his head. "Go on then."

She raced away from her uncle.

* * *

Lyonel was indeed waiting on top of their hill. He was filled out again, flesh and muscle cording around his bones, his cloak swished around his knees, his bow held lightly in his left hand, quiver at his belt, black hair rustling and hard blue eyes staring out to the east, away from Westeros.

"Lyonel!"

He turned and smiled at her softly, holding out his right hand to help her up. "How are you Shireen?" He asked.

"Me? I wasn't the one who couldn't get out of bed not so long ago."

What she hoped would draw a smile only made him turn away from her and she regretted what she'd said. "Everything is ready for the attack then?" She asked, trying to turn his attention away from where he'd been.

He nodded. "It is, as much as I can make it. Enough men and ships to make short work of Tarth and its rebel lord."

"The next step to victory," she said, stepping right up next to him, tentatively reaching her fingers out to his arm.

"With fortune and the aid of the gods," he replied, fingers tightening around his bow.

"With good aim and focus," she said, brushing her fingertips along the dragonbone.

He flinched, the bow slipping away. "Good aim... isn't everything."

"Well of course not, but it must help."

"Yes... I suppose it does."

Something was wrong with him.

"What's wrong Lyonel, why are you like this?"

"Have you ever wondered... do we deserve this?"

"Deserve what?"

"The throne." He turned to her, fixing her with a gaze that scared her because she'd never seen it in her brother before. "We've spent so long fighting for it, but, spilling the blood of Westeros, does that mean we deserve to rule it?"

"What's wrong with you?" She whispered. "It's not a matter of deserve, there is no proving worth for the throne, it is father's. That is written in law of men and gods, and once we break those laws there is nothing left."

"People have died, Shireen, people on both sides of the war, and yet, here we are, exactly where we started. No closer to father's throne."

"People must die, brother, for that I grieve and mourn, but I know it to be true. All we can do is swear to them, to all those who have died in true service to us and who serve Joffrey in the false belief that he is rightful, that we will make their deaths mean something. We have to swear to the living and the dead to rule well, to make Westeros better. The best we can do is the least that we owe them."

His lips parted as he looked at her, a look of almost longing in his eyes. "How are you so...?"

"So what?" She asked.

He shook his head. "I struggle to understand the gods at times," he said. "How is it that they made it law that I must succeed my father, when you would clearly be a better queen than I would be a king?"

The breath was knocked out of her. "Brother, don't doubt yourself so. You will be a fine king, I know it."

He reached out and gently brushed her hand with his fingertips. She seized them tightly. "You're wrong this time Shireen, you would be better. I would give my life to preserve your own, and that would be my greatest service to Westeros."

"You'd... die in my place?"

"Of course I would."

"Even if I were to commit a crime?"

"I- what?"

"Lyonel," she stepped in close, their breath mingling. "If I were to be as bad as Cersei or worse, if I stood between Westeros, would you still give your life for mine."

"You would never-"

"Just imagine it, please?"

He closed his eyes and turned his head away. "Don't make me imagine it?"

"You must!" She reached up and forced his head to look at her, opening his eyes with her thumbs. "Imagine it, me lying in a pool of blood, surrounded by the fresh corpses of the slain, clearly done by me, and for no other reason than the fact that I wanted to? Would you still give your life for mine then?"

Slowly, as though it were causing him great pain, he shook his head. "No," he whispered. "Then you'd no longer be you, and I would... be just."

"How?"

"I'd... judge you, fairly, but in full accordance with the law?"

"And if it found me guilty?"

"I'd... punish you," his voice was almost cracked.

She shook her head and rapped him over the head lightly. "You are so stupid sometimes. You'd give your life to protect me until I was a criminal, and then you'd treat me as the criminal I was. Can you not see that this is what makes you a good king?" His eyes widened as they stared at each other. "And if you extend that to everyone, great and small within your land, then you will be a great king."

He nodded, slowly as though the realisations were only just coming to him. He reached up and held her shoulders. "Just... promise me that you will never become that."

"What?"

"That criminal... promise me, you can never be that."

"Do you promise to be a good king?"

"I... will try."

"Then I promise."

He broke into a wide grin, all innocence and pleasure. She leant in to him, moving her lips up towards his face. But he pulled her in too fast, pulling her face into his chest and holding her close. He'd been like this since he woke up, since he got back from the Blackwater, refusing her kisses. Not this time. She twisted in his grip, leant up and kissed him on the cheek, as he squirmed away he loosened his grip and she snatched her hands up, cupping her face and bringing it down, kissing his forehead fiercely, holding him close. "Shireen," he whispered, trying to break free.

"Not escaping this time brother."

She giggled and pulled away, her kiss shining on his forehead.

He wiped at his forehead like he did when he was a boy and hated the idea of kisses from anyone, her or their mother, like he was trying to remove an ink stain. "Oh come now brother, if you're defeated by kisses what hope do you have on the battlefield."

"That's hardly the point, it not about winning or losing."

"Well, go and prove it then. Get ready, be with your men, and when you get to Tarth, lead them to victory."

"I will."

"And when you get back I'll give you another kiss just to prove it."

Lyonel groaned and she laughed out loud.


	70. Book 3 Loren II

"They were tall enough last time," Loren said. "We don't need them taller, just stronger." The wind whipped his hair backwards as he looked over the southern boom tower. "If Lord Stannis had known they were there from the beginning he could have taken the southern tower earlier, if he had, he would be on the throne right now. "The small moat was good, useful. Could we do something to improve it?"

"What about spikes?" Gerold commented. He pointed around the tower. "It may not help against a ground assault, but strong spikes in the water around the tower could break up any attacking longboats, stopping an assault by sea."

That would've stopped the tower falling in the first place. "Add that to the list," he said. The list of what was needed to prepare the city for a second assault was getting rather long. _No matter, it's father's money after all._ "Double the number of spikes."

"For the other tower as well?"

"Double it again." He smiled as he looked over towers, still not satisfied with their potential to withstand a ground assault. One good stone throw from a trebuchet could bring down the tower, and the chain with it.

"This is becoming a long list," Gerold commented, but he didn't object.

He looked at the towers again. He needed time to think on the towers. Thankfully, Stannis wasn't yet looking to attack King's Landing again, so there was time. "Take us back to the city." Gerold called out to the captain to turn the ship around and take them back to King's Landing.

There was an official with a lion on his breast waiting for him on the jetty. No stag, just a lion, this was certainly his father's regime. "Lord Marshall," the official said, bowing at his waist. "Your father summons you-"

"To the small council?" He finished. "I am aware that there is a meeting." Father couldn't even trust him to remember when there was a small council meeting. "You can run along now."

The official scurried off like a rat. Varys has his birds; Littlefinger his cutthroats and hirelings, Cersei her pawns and father his rats; big rats, small rats, rats with spears and swords, rats with sigils and sails, but rats all the same. "No need to bore yourself outside the door to the Small Council chambers," Loren said to Gerold as they mounted their palfreys. "Go, have the rest of the day off, I'll give the list to father."

He was the last to arrive at the council chambers. Father, Cersei, Mace Tyrell, Tyrion, Varys, Littlefinger and Pycelle all turning to him as he entered.

"You're late," his father noted.

"I am," he replied. "My apologies." He slid into his chair at the far end of the table, as far from his father as he could be. Tyrion was to his right and all the others were at the other end. "I have the list of requirements for the city. He slid it down the table, reaching halfway. Lord Mace took it up and, instead of passing it down, he got up and went down to Tywin to give it to him personally.

"Thank you, Lord Tyrell." His father read over the list, his face not moving, not one raised eyebrow or twitch of the mouth. Nothing. "Is all of this truly necessary?"

Loren nodded. "Yes. Three gates suffered damage in the battle and will need to be replaced, all of their defences are outdated and need updating with proper machicolations as a counter to rams that make it to the gates, our Wildfire stocks being depleted. A dozen new warships dedicated to the patrolling and defence of the Mouth of the Rush in the long term, repairs to the southern tower and upgrades to both their defences. I terms of manpower, of course the fresh swords, spears and mail for the Goldcloaks, but also the restocking of our siege supplies, a fund for a force of crossbowmen to hold the walls, at least until the end of the war. I can't remember the rest of the list off the top of my head, if I'm honest, but there were a fair few other things as well."

"There are," Tywin said. _Your teeth seem rather clenched father._ "Do you know how much this will cost?"

"No," he replied simply. "I am the Marshall, father, I simply say what is needed to secure the city against the enemy and direct the war front, we have Lord Baelish here for matters of funds." Littlefinger shot him a look of barely contained venom, the man still hadn't forgiven him for locking him in the dungeons for the battle.

"And he and I shall discuss this," he said, putting the list face down on the table, but for now there are other matters to discuss."

 _More important matters, I'm sure_ , Loren thought, and sat back to hear them. "We've received word from Lord Tarly. His men are slowly but surely pushing down through the Kingswood, they have taken a dozen villages, but they face fierce opposition from Lord Stannis' woodsmen who oppose them. He asks for another two weeks before he has pushed them out enough to say the southern bank is secure."

Loren smiled, but he couldn't catch Lord Tywin's eye. Pushing into the Rainwood was the one concession his father had granted him, and it seems it was a success. He'd wanted more, his father had wanted less. But if this worked, his father would be forced to accept that it was their best option.

"Soon we can catch what's left of the traitor's army and crush it." Lord Tyrell puffed out. "I would be honoured to lead the men to do so."

"For now let us wait and see," Loren said. "Once Lord Tarly has finished clearing the kingswood, then we can consider more."

"Quite right." His father's voice cut across them like ice. "We must also wait for Lord Tarth's return to the fold to bear its full fruit. Stannis Baratheon is a hard man to follow and I expect that more of those who have pledged themselves to him will return to us. Let Stannis bleed before we march on him."

"I think that's a mistake, we cannot assume that any others will return to us. In the company we were marching against-"

"We don't need tales of your sellsword days," Lord Tywin said. "This is a different war, we fight with iron here in Westeros, not gold."

Loren bit back his retort. "As you say, father."

"For now there is the more immediate matter of the Lady Margaery's arrival. Everything is in order?"

"It is, my lord," Mace Tyrell replied. Loren saw Littlefinger nod to Lord Tywin surreptitiously, and from Tyrion's expression, it would seem that things were indeed ready, and not too heavily biased in favour of the Tyrells. Still Lord Mace had wanted him to accompany Lady Margaery, he had the largest component of the royal forces at his command, and best of all he hungered for a battle he could call his own.

After the meeting was done, Loren let Lord Mace get far enough away that his father's witnesses were not there before hurrying to catch up with him. "Lord Mace!"

The Lord of Highgarden turned, his guardsmen standing fast to his shoulder. "Lord Loren," he smiled, arms stretched wide genially. "How can I help you?"

"I was hoping we might speak, my lord, are you busy?"

"Not at present, walk with me."

Loren nodded and fell into step with him. "What is your opinion on the war, where do we stand now?"

"In a position of strength, here at King's Landing we have nearly a hundred thousand men together, and I can raise more at a moment's notice should I need it. We need only pick a foe and we can crush it."

 _Interesting._ "So my lord, where should we march, we have two foes at present. Stark or Stannis?"

"Stannis, he is weakened, lame. I would relish nothing more than to push against him and finish what I started fifteen years ago."

Loren nodded, this was going well, a little more prodding. "I agree, if we can march against Lord Stannis, that will secure us for winter, then, when the snows fall, we can re-conquer the realm of the Stark King."

"Oh I don't see why we have to wait, Lord Marshall, why not deal with them both. Move to crush Lord Stannis in one move and then we can turn on Robb Stark. After all, Lord Stannis won't take too long. Though I would relish the chance to crush him, when my army descends on the Stormlands in full force, the lords will return to us rather than face it all."

Loren suppressed his grin and instead nodded slowly. "Yes... that could be done, but we would have to move far more quickly than my father would like. He would rather we wait for the wedding of your daughter to his grandson. I fear he would not permit such an action without it."

Lord Mace waved away Loren's comment. "I see no reason for that my lord, I believe we should aim to have crushed both by winter. And think on it, together, you and I can make a gift of the traitors to the new royal couple."

"It would be quite a gift," he let a hint of his delight slip onto his face. "If the Hand of the King could be persuaded-"

"Leave that to me, Lord Loren, I will speak with him."

"I think not, my lord."

"Marshall?"

"Think my lord. I suspect my father's nerve has been touched a little by his defeats. We should move together to reassure him, and do so only when we hear good news."

"You have a plan?"

Loren nodded, leaning in. "Let us wait until we hear Lord Tarly clears the woods. Instruct him to send word to you and you alone when he has done so. Bring it to bear at the next council meeting and I will give you my full support. With news of the victory and the support of myself, I believe my father will give us permission to march."

Lord Tyrell tapped his nose knowingly. "I see my lord. I shall have word sent to Lord Tarly at once."

"Very good Lord Tyrell, now if I may beg your pardon, there was somewhere I had to be."

"Of course my lord, do call on me again if you need anything else."

"I will lord Tyrell, I will indeed." He waited for Lord Tyrell to turn to corner before he let his face split into a grin.

He was still smiling when he returned to his chambers. "What's made you so happy brother?" Tyrion asked.

His smile vanished. "What are you doing here?"

"Drinking," Tyrion replied from his seat at Loren's table, wiggling his cup at him. "Where were you keeping this vintage brother?"

"I was Hand of the King for a while, it gave me certain privileges," he said. He'd been forced to sneak more than one bottle away to cope with the preparations for the siege, thankfully they hadn't been discovered after the battle, so he'd been able to bring them to his new accommodations.

"And you used them well, care for a cup?"

He was feeling generous. "Why not." He pulled another chair up to the table and settled opposite his brother. Tyrion slid the cup of deep gold vintage over to him.

"You have a lot of maps here, "Tyrion said gesturing to the end of the table where he'd piled up his maps from the hours he spent pouring over them to plan for the wars that weren't being fought.

"Reports as well, droll and dreary, but essential for our war."

Tyrion nodded. "It makes sense. But I must ask, you know father isn't going to send you to war any time soon, why bother, why not just..." he held up the cup.

"Because eventually I am going to have to go and fight. Even if father disapproves now, one day, it will happen, and as King's Marshall it is my duty to be ready for that day. I owe it to the men I'm going to lead to know all I can, so that I can win without their being asked to sacrifice more than is needed."

"Your men, not father?"

"What do I owe father?" He demanded, his mood sour. "I know what I know of war because I sought it in Essos, you know as well as I that King's Landing would have fallen before father arrived had I not been commanding the defences. What has father given me that I have not earned?"

"Your name, you wouldn't be a Lannister without him."

"Your right, I should go and thank him, I'm sure it was such a burden on him the night I was conceived to have sex with our mother."

Tyrion chuckled. "A fair complaint. We both of us owe our existence to Lord Tywin's pleasure." He raised his glass in a mocking toast to Tyrion's statement before downing it in one go. "But he has also given you the best learning money can buy, arms and armour fit for a king, and Casterly Rock will be yours."

"Thanks to our dear brother, if Jaime hadn't taken the white I would be where you are now."

"With claim to a castle of my own, a very big castle, bigger than even the Rock. The littlest of the Lannisters with the biggest castle."

"Don't think you owe father for that, he did it to increase Lannister prestige and power, not to reward you."

"Are you saying that I would have Harrenhal if he hadn't pushed it? Whatever his reasons I have it because of father."

Loren drank, hating that Tyrion was, perhaps, a little bit right.

Perhaps seeing the stormclouds gathering on his face, Tyrion didn't press the matter of their father further, Loren buried it deep in his stomach and drowned it with wine. "What were you going to say about the east?"

He raised an eyebrow to Tyrion.

"At the meeting," Tyrion explained. "You started mentioning the east before father cut you off. What were you going to say?"

"You noticed?"

"I see rather a lot, you just don't see when I see, you see?"

He blinked. "I see."

Tyrion laughed and he let a breath of air escape from between his teeth, enough that it almost threatened to become a chuckle. "We were marching to confront an army of Qohorik mercenaries who'd rallied three companies of horsemen to their sides to try and confront us. I led a raid to capture much of the enemy war chest. One of the enemy companies deserted, and we assumed the others would as well. When we marched to battle and found they hadn't, we were taken by surprise. We still won the battle, but we lost more men than we should have." It was after that battle he was given command of the outriders of the company, to ensure that they fought with all the available knowledge of the foe.

"You think that Lord Tarth's treason may not inspire others?" Tyrion asked.

He nodded. "Yes. Sellsword companies fight for gold, we took their immediate gold supply yet still they fought. Those at Lord Stannis' side fight for many reasons, wealth, ambition, loyalty, honour and more; dealing him one temporary defeat is unlikely to break all of these reasons, particularly if we take our sweet time taking advantage of it."

He sat back, cup drained. Tyrion looked quizzically at him, like some wizard's little assistant. "I know little of war, but what you say has a certain sense to it."

"Well I know a lot of war, and I would appreciate it if more people accepted that."

Tyrion nodded before draining his own cup. "You know what you're problem is brother?"

"Enlighten me."

Tyrion got to the door and pulled it open, looking back over his shoulder at him. "You think that your experience at war means everyone should listen to you, failing to see that the rest of your record doesn't make you worth listening to."

Loren's mouth opened and closed like a fish as Tyrion left him, the door clicking shut behind him.

It took him several moments to storm after Tyrion and wrench the door open. "Tyrion!" He yelled at his brother who was waddling down the corridor. His dwarf brother turned to look at him, not look of levity on his face, only cold hard stone. "What do you mean, my record?!"

Tyrion laughed, not with him this time, but at him. "What do you think I'm talking about Loren?"

"I don't know, dwarf, what _are_ you talking about?"

"Your family!"

Loren took a step back. "What about them?"

Tyrion laughed again, a fat, hard sound. When he'd recovered, he looked up at Loren. "Tell me, what it Joanna's favourite colour?"

"Joanna's... what?"

"Her favourite colour."

"I..." he thought back. "Blue."

"Wrong, purple. What about Lelia, how many times did we have to pull her from the sea because she was trying to swim after you?"

"I don't-"

"Sixteen. I tried to keep your wife company as best I am able, and I don't know how many times Tion asked why he'd never seen his father, or why his father had abandoned him. And let's talk about your wife for a second, do you know what your leaving did to her?"

Loren stiffened. "She didn't object."

"Of _course_ she didn't, how you managed to get such a dutiful wife I don't know, actually I do, it was father again, but by the gods do you not deserve her. Particularly after what you put her through."

"Put her through?"

"You left, barely a year and a half after she had given birth to the son you desired for so long, you up and left to go and fight for gold in some desolate wasteland. She was completely shamed. And the rumours she had to deal with-"

"What rumours?"

Tyrion shook his head. "I'm not going to tell you that, you should already know."

"Tyrion!"

"Yes yes, threaten me brother. Then go and brook on how superior you are to me. Then do yourself a service – look in the mirror."


	71. Book 3 Tristan II

"Stop complaining Tris, you're riding as well as you were before."

Tristan grumbled at Dom's remark as they closed in on Riverrun. They'd just set off again after another break on the journey, and as always, Tristan had had to work the reins between the nearly clenched fingers of his claw. In the North it hadn't been such a problem, he could use his right hand to control his horse, but now they were south of the Twins, there was too much danger from robbers and broken men, so Tristan needed to keep his sword hand available, which meant he spent too long fumbling around with the reins on the road south. And it seemed that Dom had heard enough of it.

"I haven't had to fight for real since Theon did this, hardly enough to say that I am as good as before, that will be the real test."

"Stop trying to forget how far you've come Tris, or you'll end up being a complete sour puss," Daryn grinned from his other side.

"Elmar, hit Daryn for me," Tristan told his squire who raised his riding crop and laid a blow on Daryn's forearm.

"Couldn't do that yourself?" Daryn asked, grin still plastered to his face.

"Not worth my time, besides, you and Elmar is a much fairer fight." A crack on the air and a jolt of pain shot through his left shoulder.

"That must make me your equal," Cley said, bringing his own crop back, but he recoiled as Shield, slinking his way between the horses growled at him.

"Don't make me come over there!" Dom scolded them. "Bloody children, the lot of you."

Daryn spurred forward and laid his own blow on Tristan's right arm, Cley doing the same to his left. "Alright I warned you!" Dom raced forward, seized Cley's reins and dragged his horse away.

"Everyone should stop!" Elmar piped up, glaring at the three of Tristan's companions as only a child trying to be an adult can, but he was still clearly enjoying it all.

"You're right Elmar, we should," Daryn said, moving his horse away from them.

"Yes, sorry Elmar," Cley bowed his head in mock shame.

"So you'll listen to the boy but not me?" Dom demanded.

"We're afraid of the boy Dom," Tristan replied and all of them burst into laughter.

With the silence that fell, Tristan looked around at the land they were riding through. It had been untouched by the war since Robb had defeated Jaime Lannister right at the outset, but even so it was not recovered. Fields still showed the scars of fire and plunder, and those that weren't were only being tilled by half the farmhands, the rest were trying to rebuild homes and lives, or watching out for wolves and bandits. Or soldiers, they shied away as Tristan's host approached, watching them with fear and hatred in their eyes. "Why do they look at us that way?" Cley had asked at the first village, not having seen the war so far.

"They've had bad experience with soldiers," Daryn replied sorrowfully. "We didn't protect them the first time, why should we be trusted to do so this time?"

"It's not just the Lannisters that have taken," Domeric said. "Wars need food, coin, soldiers, who do you think has been taking them, and how politely do you think they were asked?"

"They have a duty to their liege, we needed them for the war," Tristan said, but something about it felt hollow.

A silence fell upon them as they and the army moved on, the trump trump trump of their boots thrumming in his ears like a slow ponderous heartbeat. That made him think of Robb. Did his heart still beat? Was he lying dead at Riverrun? Was it Robb waiting for him, or Robb's crown?

"Are we there yet?" Elmar asked to break the silence.

"That stopped being funny at Moat Cailin Elmar," Tristan said.

"Are we there yet?" Daryn asked.

Tristan twisted in his saddle to glare at the Lord of Hornwood.

"Are we there yet?"

"I'm warning you Cley?"

"Are we there yet?"

"Dom, you as well, or you may fall off your horse again."

Domeric raised an eyebrow. "Good luck with that."

"Fall off his horse?" Elmar asked, "but Lord Domeric is the best rider I've ever seen."

He glanced at Dom. "Shall I tell the story?"

Dom waved his approval. "He's your squire."

"It was at my time at the Dreadfort. Dom and I had had an argument."

"Who could imagine that?" Daryn asked drolly.

Elmar spoke up before Tristan could continue. "What about?"

"A woman... I think." He glanced at Dom.

"Most likely, knowing you. And I did see her first."

"This is how it began," he said, turning to look at Elmar again. "Anyway, we were back in the Dreadfort, still couldn't decide what had actually happened. So we started yelling."

"Yelling, that's it?" Daryn commented. Of course he'd already heard the story, but he was asking the right questions for Elmar.

"Yes, yelling, such a commotion, it drew Lord Bolton."

"What happened?"

"I pointed at Dom's very heavily bruised face and explained, perfectly rationally, how he'd fallen off of his horse."

"And landed on his face?" Cley asked.

"Exactly." Tristan said, but still we were yelling.

"Okay," Daryn said, fixing him with a knowing gaze. "And you of course didn't fall off your horse."

Tristan nodded. "That's right, brilliant rider that I am."

"And exactly how many times did Dom fall off his horse?"

"Oh, you know, heat of the moment... I lost count."

"Did Lord Bolton ever suspect what happened?" Elmar asked.

"What, no questions?" Daryn asked the squire in reply.

Elmar shook his head. "People have 'fallen off horses' at the twins before. Usually because the guards catch them before they keep doing it."

Tristan was reminded again how lucky he was to grow up in Winterfell, compared to the Twins. "He knew full well," he replied. "Especially the next morning."

"What happened the next morning?" Elmar asked.

"Tristan misplaced his clothes during the night," Dom explained with a smirk. "As we all found out during breakfast."

They laughed, even Tristan, the memory of walking stark naked into breakfast at the Dreadfort lightening the mood on this long, dolorous march, even Shield barked out in a kind of laugh.

As the army settled down for the night, Tristan stood at the edge of the camp, looking south, towards Riverrun, they'd failed to make it that day, slowed by the disruption the war caused to the roads, but tomorrow they would and he'd finally learn what happened to Robb.

"Tristan, you have to rest at some point." Domeric approached, his pale eyes soft in the gloom and ringmail hard and dark.

"I can't, not while Robb-"

"We don't know about the king," Domeric said, taking his shoulders firmly. "We've come as fast as we could and-"

"Left behind men. If there'd been time, I could have brought more to aid the fight." There were six thousand men behind him. The men they'd taken north when they heard of the ironmen invasion were coming back with them again, a hard core. Joining them were wolves of winter, men who would only be another mouth to feed in winter, and came south looking for death. Older, but in driven, fierce and ready to die.

"War doesn't let us set the rules. This time speed mattered more. You needed to get to Riverrun, and we had to leave some men behind to watch the North anyway, you never know how Balon Greyjoy will react to your demands, he might comply, or he might double down and return with more ships. We've done the right thing Tristan, trust me."

His demands to Lord Balon had been simple. All ironmen were to leave the North, and Balon was to launch attacks on the southlands still holding to the Iron Throne. If he did this, then Tristan would order the release of his sons remains, and his daughter, whom Ser Rodrik had captured at Deepwoode Motte. Another thing to wait and see. He needed something he could do now, but all that was left was the cold and dark of the night.

"I know, Dom, I'll be there soon. I promise."

Dom patted him on the shoulder and, trusting in his word, left Tristan to his thoughts for just a few moments longer.

()()()

They made it to Riverrun shortly passed midday. Outside the castle was the army of his brother and the riverlords. Thousands of horses tethered in horse lines more than a mile long, tended to by grooms and squires and horsemasters. Men in fur lines cloaks sat around on the riverbank, or tested their steel against each other while other northmen and rivermen cheered and jeered and placed coppers on one fighter or the other. Teamsters drove wagons along paths beaten hard by thousands of hooves and boots, carts with swords and spears and arrows, carts with salted meat and bundled wheat and barley. On the riverbank pages and squires with nothing to do skipped stones across to the Rivermen on the eastern bank, who skipped more back with gusto.

The rivermen camp was larger, around twice the size of his brother's host of horsemen. He saw the banners of Mallister and Frey and Blackwood, of Bracken and Piper and both houses of Vance. Where horselines stretched on this bank it was pavilions on the other. Tent after tent for the men in the field, many of them on the bank. Young spears drilling under grizzled serjeants and men at arms. Youths who had come with dreams of adventure armed with sticks strapped with stones were now clutching spears of ash and oak set with a metal point in the shape of a leaf or arrowhead, glinting the fresh autumn sun like a thousand diamonds. He heard shields crashing together as they held they were taught to hold. This was his grand uncle's work. The Blackfish was using the time he had while the army was still to drill it as much as possible, make these levies be worth something. Men in metal caps and mail shirts marched in an attempted lockstep while outriders sped along the banks to keep their saddle legs or returning from a ranging to make sure the enemy were kept well away.

As he rode down the road through the northern camp men bowed to him and whispered to each other at the sight of the second wolf among them again. Some called out to him or to each other but he paid them no heed as he approached the castle.

Riverrun's drawbridge was lowered, men and women moving along it in both directions as messengers and servants moved one way or the other to deliver baskets of food and fruit or letters from one lord to another. "Make way for Prince Tristan!" Cried his men as he and his riders crossed the bridge to enter the castle of his mother's family.

Inside he was met by Uncle Edmure and a dozen knights in mail with swords at their belts. Edmure's blue surcoat with the trout on it leaping across the water. "Nephew!"

Tristan smiled as he dismounted, gently working the reins from his claw. "Uncle Edmure," he replied, greeting the man with a fierce embrace. "I hear you had quite the victory here".

Edmure's smile was half hearted. "Aye, but your brother was not most pleased. Apparently I was to let a Lannister army cross my land unmolested."

"And miss a perfect opportunity to spill lion blood?" Tristan asked. Why would his brother deny that, every victory worked in their favour. If the Tullys could spill their blood just as the Starks could, surely that would only put more fear into the hearts of their foes. "But speaking of my brother," he said before Edmure could continue on the topic. "I would see him now. And mother too, and Arya".

Edmure nodded. "Of course, they are all together. Your mother and sister have been eagerly awaiting your arrival."

His uncle led him inside Riverrun.

His family was in a large bedchamber, given over to them by uncle Edmure while Lord Hoster was confined to his bed in his own chambers. _This castle is full of the infirm and dying_ , he thought as they opened the door.

He froze at the sight. His brother was lying confined on a bed, shirtless and sweating, eyes closed and hair matted Beside him his mother knelt and prayed while Arya sat on the other side, holding Robb's hand. Standing behind Cat was the Blackfish and next to Arya was Lord Umber, his brother's most trusted men. Grey Wind was curled at the foot of the bed, a silent sentinel of his master. They all turned when he entered. "Tristan!" Arya and his mother cried in unison. Arya reached him first, slamming into his middle and hugging him tightly. His mother joined her moments later, hugging around his neck and holding him close.

He wrapped his claw around his mother and stroked Arya's hair with his hand. "I'm here," he said. "I'm back". Shield bounded past him, leaping at Grey Wind and Nymeria who through themselves at him in a tumbling mass of grey and silver fur.

"You saved them," his mother whispered. "Bran and Rickon... you saved them".

He nodded. "They're safe, and they'll never be in danger again."

"My Prince," said the Blackfish. Unlike his mother and sister, he did not seem relieved, but concerned. "What happened to your hand?"

Their eyes were all dragged to his claw. "Theon," he replied, holding it up, his rage burning at the mere thought of the turncloak. "His last mad act against House Stark was to give me a claw. I took off his head as payment for that."

"Good," Arya replied fiercely. "He deserved to die".

"And die he did sweet sister," he replied. "I'll tell you all about it later, for now, my brother, what happened? Your letter was vague mother."

"His grace led an attack on the Crag. The castle fell soon enough, but a luck crossbow bolt found its mark in the King."

"We urged him to wait until he was fully recovered, but he insisted on riding, he had to return to Riverrun. The journey was hard on his leg and he fell at the end. He's been abed ever since".

"The maesters say that he has past the worst stage, as long as we keep cleaning and tending to the leg it shouldn't become infected, and he should recover, but it may be some time," his mother said. He had seen the look in her eyes before, when Bran fell from the tower. Thank the gods, his brother waited for him, not the crown... never the crown.

He placed his hand on her shoulder. "Robb will recover," he swore. "He's stronger than Bran, and Bran recovered. And he would never abandon the North to my hands."

They glanced at each other. "That's why we called you here Tristan," his mother said. "We need you to take your brother's Kingdom and rule it until he returns t us."

"What?" Tristan gasped.

Brynden Tully took up where Catelyn had left off. "You are the only one who can," he explained. "Your brother has the loyalty of both Rivermen and Northmen, but your brother is the only one who could be assured of the loyalty of both."

"There is treason in the air?"

"No, but there are disputes over who should be in command, and your name is the only one that they settle on."

But I have nothing – no victories, no patience... no talent. "What about you mother, or you Ser Brynden, all know your reputation, surely they would follow you? Or you Greatjon! You were my brother's greatest champion?"

They all shook their heads. "They respect me as your mother and your father's widow, but this is war, they cannot follow a soft woman into war. Especially not since I pushed for peace before Robb was crowned."

"I would love nothing more than to lead the men, my prince, but I would have half the northern lords competing for the position, and all I can be sure of from the Riverlords is uncertainty." Said Greatjon, his eyes filled with longing for battle and command.

"And I am old, my rank is nothing more than household knight, and I am a riverman besides. It is not enough. You are the only one who can keep this all together."

"You must take up Robb's mantle. We cannot afford a debate on the matter, you have his authority and blessing to serve. The men will follow you. When the Lannisters march, you will need to face them," his mother said.

"They haven't marched already?" They should have marches as soon as word reached them that Robb was injured, why hadn't they.

His mother shook her head. "We've kept the news as secret as possible. We had to buy time for you to get here. Most are unaware that Robb is injured. But that will soon change."

"Why?"

"There's a pet of Lord Tywin's stalking the castle, he's been here three days now, waiting for an audience with the King. We've denied him so far, soon he'll know or guess the real reason why."

Tristan was confused. "Lord Tywin's pet?"

"A negotiator," his mother explained. "Sent to haggle for Ser Jaime's return."

"Bloody Kingslayer."

"Well Tywin can't well have him, not unless he gives us what we want," Tristan said. He knew that much at least.

GreatJon slapped him on the back. "You've got the right of it prince."

"And now we have the authority to tell him that," his mother said.

"We can have him summoned here when you're ready, my prince."

"Wait, I-"

"No we should do it in the main hall, for all to see, as Robb did last time."

"Yes, it would be a good way to ensure that the lords are with Tristan."

"Is he ready for that though?"

"He has to be, _we_ have to."

"We must do it soon, we can't remain complacent forever. Soon the army will have to march."

"Against what target?"

"That's for Prince Tristan to decide."

"When?"

"As soon as he is able?"

"My prince when will you-"

They all fell silent as they caught sight of Tristan's cloak whipping around the door.

He gasped for air as he burst out onto Riverrun's battlements. He gripped the stone barrier tightly, fingers whitening and cold air flooding into his throat as he looked out over the flowing waters of the tumblestone bent into the red fork of the Trident.

"Tristan." He turned around to see Arya hurrying after him. "Are you okay?" Concern was etched on her face, behind her, Shield and Nymeria followed, jaws low to the ground. Nymeria nearly as tall as she was now, and instinctively Arya wrapped her arms around Nymeria's neck when the wolf pulled up beside her.

"I just needed air," he said, bowing his head between his arms. "It was too loud, too hot in there."

Arya walked over and tucked herself into his side. "They've been like that ever since Robb came back, arguing, fighting, waiting, never shutting up when we need it."

"And now they want me to stop them?"

Arya looked up at him, grinning. "You could just beat them all until they shut up."

He raised his eyebrow. "It worked for Tywin Lannister's men in Harrenhal."

"I'm not Tywin's men, I'm better than that at least."

"So you could beat them more."

He frowned. Had Arya been so broken by her journey through the war? "Are you seriously saying you want me to beat our mother into unconsciousness?"

"I hope not." They looked back at the door they'd come through. Their mother stood there, blue dress wrapped around her and a heavy fur cloak draped over it. Despite it she had allowed herself a small smile. "I'm sorry Arya, can I speak to your brother?"

"What do you want from him?" She stood between him and his mother like a guardian.

"It's okay, Arya," he said, placing his hand on her shoulder. "Go back to Robb, we'll be there soon, I don't doubt."

Arya looked back at him, not moving until he looked her in the eye and nodded. She and Nymeria moved off, slipping past their mother without a look.

"What happened to her?" He asked.

Catelyn looked after Arya, pain in her eyes. "She's not happy that we've kept her hidden from the negotiator."

He walked over and hugged his mother and she nuzzled her face into him. "Thank you, for Bran and RIckon, I thought they were gone, I thought-"

"They're okay mother," he told her, rubbing her back as well as he could with his clenched claw. "Theon has been punished and the ironmen driven from the North, now there's only the Lannisters to be concerned about."

"And the Tyrells."

His lips thinned into a line. Together the Lannisters and Tyrells were strong, but not unbeatable. All they had to do was hold out until Robb got better, then he'd find a way to win.

"I'm sorry," she said, stepping back and wiping a tear from her eye. "Tristan, we got too loud in there. If you're to step into Robb's place-"

"I can't step into his place! I'm nothing compared to Robb."

She smacked his chest. "I spent as much time squeezing you out as I did Robb, you are not the same person, but don't think you are lesser than him."

"I'm am lesser, he's a king now."

She sighed and closed her eyes. "He is, though I'd much prefer it if he wasn't and we were all at peace."

"And let father's killers get away with it?" He demanded.

"For Sansa, for every one of you, my children, I would in a heartbeat."

"I can't let that happen." He said. "If I have my way, I'll do to all of them what I did to Theon." Shield nibbled at his hand and he knew to calm himself down. "Mother, I can't fill Robb's shoes. I just can't."

"You have to."

"How?"

She took his hand. "Tristan, I will help you however I can."

"I haven't commanded a war before."

"No, but you don't have to, not right now."

"What do you mean?"

Catelyn released his hand. "You have plenty of time to prepare for war, listen to those with greater experience than you, as Robb did, and then make the best decisions. But right now, the only matter that requires you to act now is this matter with Tywin's negotiator. Summon him, deal with his demands. Then we can move on to war."

He nodded. It was just one negotiator, he could do that, couldn't he?

"Will you be there?"

She shook her head. "No, I will stay with Robb and my father. If you are to truly be Robb's regent, you cannot be seen to be mothered, by either your enemies or your lords. I told you, they respect me, but they do not wish me to rule, or even be seen to."

"So I have to do this alone?"

She smiled at him, reaching up to cup his cheek. "Oh Tris, when have you ever really been alone?"

"What do you mean?"

"Boys," her mother called over her shoulder, and Dom, Cley, Daryn and Elmar emerged, looking at him with smiles and friendship.

"You didn't think we'd leave you alone did you?" Daryn said, cocksure as always.

He couldn't help but smile.

"Let it be known when you are ready to meet with the negotiator, and everything will be handled from there." Catelyn said before turning and moving past his friends. "Keep looking after him boys, or I feed you each other's balls."

"We don't doubt it my lady," Cley grinned back.

When his mother was gone and he was alone with his friends did he let himself fall to his knees. "I can't do it," he said. "How can I hold all of this together?"

"Because you're Tristan Stark," Domeric said, striding over and pulling him to his feet. "Son of Lord Eddard, brother of King Robb, that alone will have your people at your back."

"And anyone who isn't, we'll beat into line," Elmar piped up, flexing his boy muscles.

 _Maybe you and Arya are better suited than I thought._

"But I can't be Robb."

"Obviously you can't you're you. I can't be you, why should you be Robb?" Daryn asked.

"You can't be him because your sword arm is too dull," Cley commented.

"And my wit too sharp Cley."

Even Tristan smiled. "So what do you suggest I do?" he asked.

Domeric folded his arms across his chest. "Well, you can't be like Robb, so don't, we need to decide on our path forwards, and if you are to lead us, you must be confident that you know what you're doing."

"So."

"So you must embrace that you are not Robb. You told me once that you were his dark mirror, the shadow of his sword. Embrace that. Be Robb's darkness, so that when he returns, he can bring them back to negotiation and they will long to talk with him."

He could do that at least, he always had a penchant for violence that Robb never did. But... "There is already a negotiator here, sent by Lord Tywin, I'll have to deal with him in some way."

"Just send him away, let him know that we aren't talking unless they offer us what they want," Daryn said.

Tristan shook his head. "He's not here to end the war, only to negotiate for the release of Jaime Lannister."

"What is this negotiator suggesting?" Dom asked. "He must have something to trade if he thinks we'll be willing to give Ser Jaime up."

Tristan thought back to the meeting. "A trade, Sansa for Jaime Lannister."

"Just Lady Sansa?" Dom asked.

"Well they offer Arya as well, but we have her."

"They offered lady Arya when they didn't have her?" Cley asked, confused. "How can they do that?"

"Because the shame of trading one girl for Jaime Lannister will likely outweigh any loss of face for their lie, so they see it anyway," Domeric said.

"So what, reveal their lie?" Tristan said.

Domeric nodded. "We can hardly keep it hidden forever anyway. This way we can control when it reaches King's Landing, and the manner in which it does so."

Tristan nodded. "I suppose."

"And we should punish them," Cley said.

They all looked at him. "How?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, but they should be punished. My father used to say that negotiations cannot be trusted if not made in good faith. If we want the Iron Throne to accept an independent North and Trident, they'll have to start treating us with respect." They looked at him stunned. "What, my father taught me some things."

"Evidently, remind me never to try and fleece you at cards," Daryn said. "But how do we punish them, what weapons do we have for it?"

"Tywin Lannister's favourite son," Tristan said.

()()()

The great hall was crowded with the lords of the North and Trident. Men of snow talked and laughed with men of water and river to either side of the hall. On the whole there were men of the north to the left and men of the trident to the right, but he noticed that a good few had switched to sit with men of the other side.

Tristan had changed for the occasion, a thick tunic emblazoned with the Direwolf of Stark and a cloak of the blue, red and white colours of Tully made up his wardrobe, and black leather gloves covered his hand and claw. Better not to show that particular deformity yet. Elmar was dressed in his finery, but his friends were in ringmail and carried their blades, they were to be his guard of honour for this occasion.

All talk ended when he entered the room, flanked by his friends and by Shield. He marched down the hall, feeling the eyes burning into him, but he kept his head forwards, heading towards the heavy wooden chair that had been set before the Tully seat. He turned when he got to it, took a breath and looked out over them. All of them were looking at him, judging. This was his first time at their head and every one of them was looking to see what kind of regent he would be. Cley, Daryn and Domeric took up position behind him as his guard of honour and Cley stood to his side to attend him. Shield, who had walked up beside him curled up at the base of the chair, head raised and fixing his lords with his golden predator eyes. "My Lords," he said nearly coughing over the words. "It is time for me to confirm what many of you have suspected. King Robb is abed, and unlikely to rise in any time. In his place I will stand as his regent, to speak in his name until he is returned to us. I do not wish my regency to be marked with opposition to you, so I ask you all to stand by me in this, do I have your support?"

A deafening silence met him. From the corner of his vision, he saw Elmar nod at the GreatJon, as he had been instructed.

"Aye, Prince Tristan, until King Robb returns to lead us, I will support you."

He stood alone, whispers and mutterings beginning to circle the room. This time, Elmar nodded at Stevron Frey, the heir to the Crossing. "Aye, I say we cannot afford division now, as King Robb's brother and heir, I say that Prince Tristan is the only choice before us."

He saw Lord Blackwood shoot a venomous word and harsher look at Ser Stevron and glare intently. He turned his head, scanning the lords for Lord Bracken, hadn't they had a rivalry or something? Sure enough he found Lord Bracken on the other side of the hall, caught his eye, before looking at Lord Blackwood to draw his gaze.

Seeing a chance to outshine his rival, Lord Bracken got to his feet. "Aye, Prince Tristan, I pledge my men and swords to you in these dark times, until the king is returned to us."

Not to be outdone, Lord Blackwood also got to his feet. "Aye, and I. We must be led as one or all is lost."

"You are the Stark before us now," Lady Mormont and her daughters stood as one. "We are yours, my prince."

They had enough now, others were getting to their feet and he nodded subtly at Elmar, who beckoned Daryn to step forward. "All pledge loyalty, to Tristan Stark, Prince-Regent of the North and Trident!"

"To Prince-Regent Tristan!" The lords and ladies around the room called, and those that didn't at first were quickly shamed into following suit. No one wanted to make an enemy out of the regent it seemed.

He let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. They were his, for now at least. Holding out his hands, he silenced them. "My lords, we have been still and impotent for too long. My slow return is partly to blame, but it must no longer be, I propose that we hold a council of war this very evening. Bt before we do, there is only one last matter to decide. Bring in the negotiator."

He took his seat and the lords around the hall followed suit. The door opened and, escorted by two Lannister guardsmen and a dozen riverrun guards, Lord Tywin's negotiator entered. He was a tall man, with copper bronze hair, a clipped beard and a man in a hood stitched into his robes.

He had been informed of the change in power just before the meeting and, though trained enough to hide it on the surface, the look of surprise and anger at what had been hidden from him had been delicious to see. Tristan couldn't wait for what was to come next.

"Please, my lord, may I ask your name?" He asked him.

"I am Lord Hester Banefort, emissary of Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West and Hand of the King. Here at his personal request to negotiate for the release of Ser Jaime Lannister."

Tristan nodded slowly. "A hard demand for me too match, what terms do you offer for his release?"

"Lord Tywin agrees to uphold the Queen Regent's offer, the return of Lady Sansa and Lady Arya for Ser Jaime."

"Does he?"

"He does Prince-Regent, he gives his word as Hand of the King." With that, Lord Hester drew a piece of parchment from his shirt, waxed shut with a red button. "This is his offer in writing." Tristan gestured and Elmar strode forward, chest puffed out in pride, took the letter, and brought it back to Tristan. He broke the seal and read the letter. Sure enough, there was Lord Tywin's offer, in black and white. As black and white as truth and lie."

"I cannot accept this offer, my lord," he said simply, folding the letter and tucking it away."

Lord Banefort nodded, as though he had been expecting it. "I see my lord, if only I were empowered to offer more, I would, but Lord Tywin sees no reason to do so."

"Perhaps he should," Tristan said, his voice as cold as ice. "Offer more and stop lying to us and I might consider Tywin's letters as more than papers to wipe my arse with on the privy."

A chuckle went around the room. Lord Banefort, to his credit, did not flinch at all. "You have a problem with Lord Tywin's offer Prince-Regent. If so I will take it back to him."

Tristan got to his feet. "I do have a problem with it, and so do you. You have made an offer you could not possibly fulfil."

He saw a flicker of confusion and wondered just how much Tywin had told his emissary. "How so, Prince-Regent?"

Tristan turned his head over his shoulder. "Oh Arya!" He called, and a side door opened. Escorted by two Stark guards and Nymeria at her feet. Mother had been able to convince her to wear a dress for the occasion and she and the maids had been able to make her look the princess she was. "Lord Banefort, this is my sister, Princess Arya, and her wolf, Nymeria." She grinned at Lord Banefore, who was notably able to keep his face still, though he saw the muscles twitching under the skin. "You see, my sister has told me the story of how she escaped King's Landing when my father was imprisoned by Joffrey. This means that both Lord Tywin's offer, and that of Queen Cersei, is worthless."

Cheers from around the room rained down on Lord Banefort who, to his credit, still did not flinch. "I have just been proclaimed Regent of my brother, Lord Banefort, this puts me in a good mood, so, bring him in!" He called again. From a door on the other side of the room, four men dragged a shaggy haired, rotten clothed Jaime Lannister forward to more jeers from the surrounding lords. Jaime Lannister looked him in the eye and, even now, had the gall to smile. "Hello Stark, have you missed me?"

He bit back his retort and turned back to Lord Banefort. "My Lord, half of what Tywin offered me has been returned without his doing anything at all, so I am of half a mind to give back half of what Lord Tywin wants, for free. So tell me, Lord Banefort," he got to his feet and walked slowly over to Ser Jaime. "Which half of Ser Jaime would you like?"

There was a deathly silence. "Prince-Regent," Lord Banefort said, hands extended in a placating manner. "There is no need for this, I will return to Lord Tywin at once and inform him of your... displeasure with his terms."

"Yes you will," he growled, Shield advancing on Lord Banefort, fangs bared. "And you will tell Lord Tywin that he is to treat us with the respect we deserve and start negotiating in good faith."

"I will, Prince-Regent."

"And I need to make sure that Lord Tywin understands this, so, Elmar," he turned to his squire and nodded. "Fetch me my sword, and bring me one of those benches!" A bench was carried over as Elmar brought his new sword over. He drew the blade, the steel shining in the room. With the point of the blade he gestured for Jaime to be taken over to the table.

"You wouldn't dare Stark!" Jaime said, all humour gone, replaced with rage. "You think that my father will let you get away with this?"

"Ser Jaime, I need to let your father know that _he_ can't get away with this. He has taken the north for granted despite us defeating his armies and burning his lands. I have decided that a sharper lesson is needed."

Cheers rolled out across the room. Calls of 'kill the lion', 'slay the kingslayer' and 'stick the sisterfucker' could be heard and above them all, Arya crying out in glee for him to take his head, like the Lannisters had done to their father.

"Prince-Regent!" Only now did alarm filter into Lord Banefort's voice. "Ser Jaime is your prisoner, you cannot kill him, you are required to treat him with respect."

"Respect?" Tristan asked as Jaime was forced onto the table, cheek pushed against the wood. "Like the respect that Tywin has shown me? Like the respect he demands but refuses to give."

"You cannot kill him!"

"Kill him?" He held out his arm for silence. "Whoever said I was going to kill him?" He looked down at Jaime, almost piteously. "Put his hand on the table."

For the first time, Jaime's eyes widened in fear as his right hand was forced onto the surface of the wood.

"Prince-Regent!"

But Tristan wasn't listening to Lord Banefort, instead he turned to the lords, who were nodding eagerly. "Let this be a lesson that Lord Tywin never forgets!" He brought his sword down on Jaime's wrist. With a scream and a spray of blood, Jaime's hand was separated from his arm and lay on the table like a dead spider, bone poking from the wrist and blood pooling on the wood beneath it.

"Take him away." He said to the guards and they dragged the whimpering Jaime, still dripping blood, out of the room. He then seized the hand and held it in front of Lord Banefort's face. "You will take this to Lord Tywin, I have a box all ready for you to carry it in. You will take it to him and tell him that the next time him I await his next envoy, he is to treat me with the appropriate respect. If he does not, am happy to send him more of the Kingslayer in the same manner."


End file.
